The 74th Annual Hunger Games: The Others
by Teleryn
Summary: Half of the tributes in that year's games were, as portrayed in the book and film, unceremoniously killed without a chance for us learn anything about their characters. Here are five tributes whose stories can finally be known.
1. Reaping Day

**The 74th Annual Hunger Games: the Other Tributes as Never Seen Before**

**Chapter One**

**Reaping Day**

**Author's Note: Hey, thanks for being a Hunger Games fan. That makes you awesome. Being a fan of both the books and film, I couldn't help but feel irked that half the tributes are virtually nameless, and their deaths are kind of uniform and without a lot of dramatic significance. So I decided to reinvent them, and make them a hopefully a little more memorable. Enjoy!**

**Legal: I don't own the Hunger Games, sadly, but my OCs are all mine :^)**

**District 4 **

I wake up to a grey sky and the sound of waves crashing against the piers, as usual. I look at the clock on the wall. Half seven. It could be the morning of any day, but I don't have that luxury.

I am Ash, and for all I know, I face a death sentence in the guise of a fun, successful TV show.

Well, actually, it _is_ successful. The most successful one there is. Just minus the fun, at least for the tributes.

I've been dealt a good hand from age 12, always thinking each year would be the one I'd hear my name being called out by the insufferable Mini Moxo. Bleurgh, just saying the name makes my skin crawl.

So, as I haul my bones out of bed and head to the dark blue dress with t-shirt sleeves hanging from my wardrobe, I feel strangely relieved. I just have a feeling that one last time I'll get lucky, and finally get on with having a life, free from Hunger Games concerns. I'll be able to help Mom run the lobster shop, which always gets good business because we export most of our stock to the Capitol. They literally eat up the stuff, and we earn our cash in exchange. It's a good life.

Dress on, sandals slipped into, I pad downstairs and out the back door. My parents are already up and working the counter, my brothers having gone to the piers with nets and bait even earlier. It's just me as I head down to the town square, where they'll join me soon, to watch.

I'm the youngest in the family, so after this Reaping, we'll all finally be able to relax and know that our bonds will never be broken by this absurd reality show. Can't wait.

I see the other teens, from the petrified little kids to the towering eighteen-year olds, trying to look cool and indifferent. I must look it too, I guess: experience. Inside, though, is that familiar flicker of fear. But after today, hell, after this hour, no more.

I do the finger-pricking drill no problem, and go sidle up next to a girl, who lives in the beach shack two down from us, on the end of the row furthest from the stage.

Mini Moxo (bleurgh) in her ridiculously tall glass stilettos and purple velvet sleeves that trail along the floor - in this heat? Stupid, really - taps the microphone hesitantly, as if it might swallow her alive.

"Welcome all to this Reaping for the 74th annual Hunger Games! I see many old faces as well as young, bright and new ones. Splendid, isn't it? And what's more, we have a special film…"

…_brought to you all the way from the Capitol_. I can recite her flashcard address backwards while standing on my head. Tuning out… I watch palm trees sway in the wind, gulls squawking overhead…oh, here we go. Back to business. Mini's jewel-encrusted nails dip teasingly into the girls' fishbowl. A slip is withdrawn. My throat feels dry, but that's totally expected. Anxiety hits me last minute every year, but obviously the chances of my name being drawn now are just -

"Ashes Maxim."

I lose all sense of hearing, if only for a moment. I want to pass out. How…I…what…no. This isn't real. It cannot possibly be real. But it must be, because the other girls are all turning to stare at me, with expressions varying from relief to horror. I can feel the eyes of the boys, the parents, the grandparents and the Peacekeepers all on me. I have to move, so I do, one shaky foot at a time, down towards the stage.

I have never felt so alone. So vulnerable. Like it or not, my hands shiver violently, my teeth chatter and it takes every muscle not to let my jaw drop and scream and scream and scream until I collapse.

As I stand in my place, hands at my sides, I become deaf to the name of the male tribute. How can I care when all four faces of my family are twisted with sorrow. I'm a small eighteen-year old, and my eyes probably give away too much of the fear consuming me right now. My family knows it. I know it. The rest of District Four knows it. And the other tributes and potential sponsors who'll be watching this later today will know it too.

I'm dead.

**District 6**

Even after five years, Reaping day still gives me intense nausea. I turn down breakfast, despite my mother's wheedling. As a compromise, however, I nibble on the bread crusts my younger brother doesn't feel like having. Lucky boy, he's only six. He won't have to put up with this for quite some time.

The whole time I'm sitting at the old wooden kitchen table, my eyes bore into the dusty clock that sits on our otherwise unadorned wall. I watch as the seconds turn into minutes, and the next thing I know Mom is ushering me out the door. My dad has permission from the district council to forgo the event and take care of my brother. Because he's too young for the violence, the grief, even the very concept of death. I really envy him.

It's silent save for my footsteps on the muddy path up to the square in the centre of the district, as well as Mom's, and those of all the other potential tributes on all sides. It doesn't take long for the place to fill up in a relatively organized fashion. I absent-mindedly massage away the pain from my finger as I follow our host with my eyes. She's new, and it shows. Apparently her name's Cynth Blaisée, and she's wearing what could only be described as a miniature birdcage on her head, complete with a tiny swing inside that squeaks every time she moves. I want to burst out laughing, but the moment's growing increasingly serious, so I don't.

"H-hello, all of you from, uh, District Six. My favourite one, you know…" She clears her throat and stares intently at some note cards she's brought along. I want to shake my head in…dare I say it, sympathy?

She introduces the film, looking glad to be relieved of speaking for a few minutes. Once it's finished, Cynth tries regaining composure, and delivers a smile so wide you could walk through it. Her hand reaches into the glass bowl containing the girls' names. My heart beats like crazy, and although I tell myself to get a grip and calm down, it's no use. The tension is killing me.

"Flint Verdasa."

Now, there's silence, and then there's a total vacuum, void of any and all sound. I can only feel blood pumping manically through my veins and my jaw slacken. This is not supposed to happen. I'm seventeen. I have only two years left until freedom. Except I don't…it's so hard to breathe, let alone walk. But I do. I shuffle slowly, trying to prolong the moment until I can get over my shock, but in what feels like mere seconds I'm facing the entire district.

I never realized how many people live here.

Cynth throws her arm around my shoulder enthusiastically, babbling her congratulations. Clearly she hasn't learnt much about personal space. In fact, I prise her manicured fingers off the sleeve of my maroon dress.

"Don't touch me," I whisper, not aggressively, but with enough edge for her to back well away.

**District 7**

Reaping day already. The older I get, the more quickly the Hunger Games seem to sneak up on me. What else can I do except hope that I'm not going to sent to the chop? Nothing.

Keeping this is mind, I busy myself with eating the chopped apples and oatmeal Dad's made. Given the abundance of trees in this district, it's no surprise that this is the breakfast I've had to content myself with every day since I was five. There are days when I so badly want a little sprinkle of cinnamon, or one of those bananas whose existence I've only learnt of through old books.

Still, at least we eat three square meals a day. That's more that can be said for some families around here. Times are hard, as they say. But then, I can't actually remember when times were ever easy. Maybe I'm just being cynical, but whatever.

I look down I notice my bowl is pretty much empty. Must have drifted off into my own thoughts again. I look at Dad, his work sleeves rolled up past his callused elbows. He looks at me, and then at his old watch whose leather strap he's had to replace three times.

"Better be going."

"Yes. I should."

"Remember, Tom, this is the penultimate year for you. Ain't got long to go yet."

"I know." I repress the urge to say, _but I'm still scared_. Ever since Mom died, I've had to stay strong for Dad. Prove that he can count on me to take over as Deputy Tree Surgeon when he's too old. Easier said than done, though, considering how pale my skin is, how skinny I am, and the fact that I'm one of those weird people who have to wear glasses all the time. Even up trees - a long while back I invented my own attachment to stop them falling off. It's made of twigs.

As always, a solemn hush hangs in the fresh pine-filled air. Trees line our town square, standing guard, tall and proud. Being a tree must be nice. All they have to do is grow fruit, and sometimes not even that. All they have to do is exist. No Reaping concerns bother them.

I suck the excess blood from the tip of my index finger as I stand beside my friend Kostassi. He looks relatively unfazed on the surface, but I know him well: we're just as anxious as each other.

In no time at all Mart-Mart Noxon waltzes to the centre of the stage. He likes to keep things brief.

"Welcome everyone. Let's begin with the ladies."

A girl I've never met before, looks about thirteen, stumbles onto the stage after getting over the initial shock of having her name called. I can feel my palms sweating. My glasses start steaming up. I hate it when that happens. I take them off my face for one second and start cleaning them with the corner of my t-shirt, when it happens:

"Thomas Logan."

Huh?

I glance up. Blurry though they may be, a sea of faces have all turned in my direction. I must look like I wasn't paying attention at all.

_Oh…this is happening for real. I can't delude myself, this is happening._

That sentence plays on a loop the whole journey to the stage. I wonder why I'm having such a hard time making out where to stand, when I realise I'm still holding my glasses. I surreptitiously keep them behind my back. After all, on the playback, a guy with glasses spells only one word: _bait_.

**District 8**

I awake to tangled sheets. My head is at the foot of my mattress, which is at a 90-degree angle off the bed. How the hell do I toss in my sleep so much? I must dream about running a lot without knowing it.

Rays of yolk-yellow sun pour through the half-open window. I blink and stagger into a standing position. Like every morning, I push the window up completely, take a huge gulp of morning air, and thank the skies that we don't live in the path of the smoky fumes of the manufacturing plants.

And then I remember. Reaping day. Damn it.

I turn to my door and notice my parents must have slipped in earlier this morning, because hanging on the doorknob are my dad's suit trousers and a white shirt, recently washed. Same outfit as every year since the reapings began for me. It's like the clothes grew with me.

I have five or ten minutes before I need to get down to the square, so I take a quick look in the mirror, jump, and immediately smooth down my hair, gone haywire during the night.

Water splashes on my face, and I pat my hands on the old, ragged tea towel by the tap. There's a lone apple sitting in the fruit bowl, so I grab it and start crunching into it on my way out of the house. I navigate my way around the bruises.

I'm not early, but not late either. I place myself in the second row of the oldest guys, and then tell them to duck as I lob the apple core over their heads and into the distance. I've just given a squirrel somewhere a hearty breakfast.

After seeing the Capitol's propaganda film for the seventh time, our host, Felix Peeps, announces the female tribute. I've seen her face before, but the name's unfamiliar. My heart plummets with pity at the sight of her small freckled face, her eyes threatening to spill tears. She gets to her place on stage and stares at her shoes. Poor kid.

"And now for the esteemed gentleman who is to be this year's tribute."

Gentlemen indeed - we're not stupid. We all know the Capitol look down on any district past four. Felix clears his throat.

"Daniel Whitebone."

…Damn. I mean…damn.

**District 10**

Everyone has something they do when they get anxious. Some people pace up and down, some bite their nails, and some run as fast as they can in circles.

Me, I rub my palms together. It looks like I'm freezing all year round, but I find it therapeutic. And that's what I do on the long, flat walk from our grey block to the central square. The sky is heavy where we are, threatening hot rain. My palms are almost raw, they're so red, but I can't stop. If I stop, my nerves will get to my brain, and I might do something unstable like run away, or accidentally punch someone in the face.

That's the word people tend to use to describe me: unstable. Not that I'm mentally ill or anything. I just happened to inherit my mother's nervous disposition. You can ask my little sister, because she's exactly the same. Well, okay, not exactly the same. See, whereas Savvy takes her anxieties and turns them into something more refined - studying hard to get ace grades, for example - mine tend to be channeled into physical aggression.

Useful, I suppose, if my name will be the one announced at the Reaping today. I may not be good with spears, arrows or knives, but boy have I got experience in martial arts. I could break someone's nose on my knee quite easily - but I don't. If I have a really good reason to be nervous, I just punch a pillow or a hay bale repeatedly until my knuckles bleed.

But I can't do that now. Not with all these people crammed into the stone square. I clench my fists and manage a smile in return for the one my friend Birch gives me from the row just ahead of where I'm standing.

I don't realise just how distracted I am until two words hit my ears and break my trance:

"Thorn West."

No. No no no no no no no. I don't believe this. I'm only sixteen. I am so not ready to die. There are so many people I want to say goodbye to, so much I haven't done yet. I've always wanted to get out of District Ten, but not like this. _Not like this_.

My body's taken over while my mind goes into meltdown. Anyone looking at me from the back would think I'm as cool as ice. But my expression tells a very different story. I find myself incapable of blinking. It's like that old wives' tale has come true: if you pull a face, one day the winds will change and it will stay that way forever.

I swallow, but it doesn't help. I try to keep my knees from knocking, but to no avail. My breathing becomes shallow, and I half-wonder if I'll die right here. Not at the hands of some bloodthirsty tribute, but on a hard, cold, stage floor.

I don't catch the male tribute's name, but I notice him limping up to the other side of the microphone. A few snickers arise from somewhere in the crowd. I despise whoever they belong to, but at the same time I've gotta be realistic: that kid won't last two minutes in the arena.

The arena…oh jeez, I'm actually doing this. I have to go and _kill people_, or be killed. I…

The last sound I recall is the collective gasp of the District Ten population as the world starts spinning, before sliding to an odd angle, and finally going dark. Unfortunately, I remain conscious enough to feel my head slam onto the floor.


	2. Saying Goodbye

**Chapter Two**

** Saying Goodbye**

**Ash**

I sit on the edge of the hard suede sofa, elbows on knees, blinking occasionally. Then my reverie is broken when my family burst into the room all at once. My parents look like they've been crying already, and they envelop me from both sides in a rib-crushing hug. But I don't care. What's a little breath gone when you only have three minutes to bid farewell to your loved ones forever?

Then my brothers, Raymn and Shwell, grip their arms around me tightly. Raymn is the eldest, and so tall I only come up to his chest. Or maybe I'm just that small. He kisses me on the head, and I can tell from his voice that he's trying so hard not to tear up.

"Bad luck, sis, bad, bad luck…" then he does start crying because out loud the words sound so pathetic. Shwell takes over.

"You go out and get 'em, Ash. Take no prisoners, that's how you survive."

"Yeah, except I'm not going to survive, am I?" I feel so empty, being the only person in the room not in floods of tears. My dad suddenly looks angry, and he grips my shoulders with both aging hands. There are old scars from fish hooks in his skin.

"_Hey_. Now listen here, Ashes, you can't think like that. Don't ever say that again. You've got just as much a chance as the next tribute in there. Don't be the one to get yourself killed."

I give a weak smile and a curt nod. A flash of white and a frown indicates that the Peacekeepers want my family to leave. As Dad, Raymn and Shwell slowly head out, however, Mom pulls me in even closer, and whispers in my ear:

"Remember, you've got an ability that no one else in that arena will have. Not even the Careers. If…if you don't make it, then go down fighting, and make our family proud."

"I will. I promise," I say as a Peacekeeper sharply steers her out through the doors.

And then it's just me again.

**Flint**

I can't stand this building, not in the position I'm in. I stare out of a large, squeaky-clean window that looks out over District Six. Okay, so it's not exactly picturesque, but hey, I'm going to miss it. I twist my fingers behind my back, trying to release the tension in my body.

The door hinges click, and in no time at all I'm in my dad's big, bear-like arms. I take a big sniff of his shirt, trying to bottle it up in my memories. He strokes my hair and I hear the muffled sobs of my mom. I break away from my dad and go to her, clutching her thin form as tightly as I can without hurting her. I want to be a small baby again, so I can be taken care of and not have to think about death, or about anything at all.

"I can't believe it, I just can't believe it…" she mumbles. I can only nod in agreement.

"Mommy, why…why you crying?"

My heart is ready to shatter into tiny pieces when I look down and see my little brother clutching at her leg. Biting my lip, I bend down and pick him up.

"Don't worry, little man. She's not crying. No one's crying."

"You're crying."

My smile leaves me as I use one hand to touch my face, taking in the salty streams. I wonder how long they've been there. I put on my bravest face.

"Oh, me? It's okay, these aren't sad tears, they're happy tears. And I'm happy because…because although I've gotta go away for a while, I'm gonna come back, and I'll bring you presents."

"Presents? Yay!"

I set him down on the floor again, and it takes every fibre of my being not to break down in front of the Peacekeepers who are beckoning my family out of the room. I don't want them to go. I don't want to go.

"Bye," I whisper.

When the door closes again, I fall against it and sink until I'm slumped on the floor. Tucking my knees in, I know this is one of the only moments I've got left all to myself, and so I let myself have a long, quiet cry.

**Logan**

Minutes feel like hours in that tiny, claustrophobic room. I take some books off the shelves and flick through them without reading any of the words, before putting them back on the shelves because I'm too distracted by my own fear to focus on anything. I clean my glasses until the lenses threaten to fall out.

When my dad walks into the room we don't even need to say anything. We just stand still in a hug for the longest time possible. I can hear the quivering in his voice underneath his typical fatherly composure.

"Don't forget: you know how to climb, so do. If you can't get your hands ona weapon, then make one."

He pulls away from me and looks at me right in the eyes.

"You're a man of resources, both out there - " he points to the innumerable woods outside " - and up here." He taps the side of my head. "Use them."

"Yes sir."

Then I see something in his eyes that hasn't been around since Mom died: grief.

"Time's up," the tall Peacekeeper says brusquely from the door. If I have to kill anyone, I wouldn't mind starting with him.

Dad leaves the room, but before the door closes between us, he turns around, puts his hand to his lips and raises three fingers. I do the same, and hold the gesture even after he's gone.

**Dan**

My right foot taps a nervous rhythm on the floorboards. My hands form a steeple at the edge of my lips, and I can only stare into space. Pretty soon my head'll be filled with tactics, survival tips and murder strategies, so I'd like to give it some time to be a little empty.

Soon enough, however, the door opens and my parents walk in, wearing expressions that tell me they're beyond words. We embrace, but I can only look over their shoulders at the white door which at any moment they'll have to walk out of again. I shouldn't be wasting these precious final minutes, I know. But I can't help it.

"No matter what, I know you'll do us proud in there," Dad says. And I know he's not just saying it. Mom pushes back a strand of brown hair behind her ear, and I realise right then and there how grey it's getting.

"This is all happening so fast, Daniel. I… I don't know what I could possibly say, it's so awful."

"You don't have to say anything, Mom. I understand."

We stand in silence for the last thirty seconds, because she's right: even words aren't enough to describe the weight of what we're all feeling. Then the Peacekeepers intrude on our space.

As they leave, I say one more thing on impulse.

"I love you both."

**Thorn**

There's a lot of blurriness when I wake up. For a minute I forget where I am or what's happened in the last hour. And then it all floods back at once and I have to lay my head back down on what feels like a really hard pillow.

"Thorn? Thorn, are you waking up?"

I roll my head to the right, and instantly feel more alert at the sight of my sister, Savvy. Everything becomes clearer, and I sit up. Too quickly, though, because the room starts spinning again and so I have to lie horizontally again. But my mom's there too, and she takes my hand and rubs it soothingly.

"I am so sorry."

"Oh, Thorn, why?" Mom says, appalled. "It's not your fault you were selected. Not at all."

"If it helps, everyone out there was super-worried about you when you fainted," says Savvy. "They're all rooting for you, just like we are."

I muster a genuine smile.

"That does help. I just hope my head'll be alright."

"The medic said you have a mild concussion, but you're still able to…"

Silence. I'm still well enough to participate in the Games, but we all know this is hardly something to celebrate. Savvy tries changing the subject.

"Well, at least you're okay now, and awake. I mean, for a second I thought the injury might trigger - "

"I don't think it's a good idea to go into that now, dear," Mom says in a low voice. She's right, we need to be positive together. As a family.

"I'm gonna make sure I practice every day," I say with a grin, or at least something which approximates one. Savvy smiles and Mom's grip on my hand tightens.

"Yes, I suppose finally you get to put everything you've learnt to good use."

The Peacekeepers interrupt our conversation. I try giving them a death stare, but from my angle on the sofa it kind of fails.

Mom kisses my hand, and I stroke Savvy's face, wiping away thin tears.

"Don't worry about me. I'll put on a good show."

After they leave, I wonder in the back of my mind how much time is left before I have to board the train. Then I think it would probably be wise to try and go back to sleep before then, to let my head get maximum recovery time.

I think all of this because if I dwell on the fact that I've undoubtedly seen my family for the last time, I'll break down irretrievably.


	3. The Capitol

**Chapter Three**

**The Capitol**

**Author's Note: Remember, reviews make me a very happy writer :^D I'm going to be honest...I meddled with the tributes' chariot costumes. Not quite enough to outdo Peeta and Katniss, but enough to give them a bit of self-esteem. I mean, have you _seen_ the film? I felt sorry for the actors who had to wear those outfits :^/**

**Legal: Again, if I owned the Hinger Games, I would not be revising for A-levels, but on a beach somewhere far, far away...**

**Ash**

I wake up with a silky blue blanket gathered up to my eyes. Must have got chilly during the night.

I still can't get over the fact that, if you didn't look out of the window with countless trees and fields flashing by, you wouldn't think you were on a train. But then comfort has always been high on the Capitol's list of priorities, I suppose.

I swing off the futon and move to get dressed. I see that someone took the time to dry-clean the dress I was wearing yesterday; it hangs creaseless on the door handle.

Breakfast is sumptuous: light pastry puffs with fluffy whipped cream, yoghurt with honey, seeds, nuts and berries, fruit salads, eggs made in five different ways…lots of protein before training begins.

The male tribute - a short fifteen-year old named Dyon - doesn't say much, and neither do I. Thank goodness there was so much food on the table, otherwise we wouldn't know what to do with our hands. In fact, we don't so much as make eye contact until our mentor, the glamourous Finnick Odair, walks into the car to give us some words of wisdom. I try not to make much eye contact with him either.

"In short: smile for the cameras until your jaw is about to fall off; wave gracefully and don't trip over your own feet; follow me to avoid getting lost in the tide of fans and, most crucially, let the stylists do whatever the hell they please to you. They know what they're doing."

"Yes sir," I say without thinking. I hear him chuckle.

"I like you already. Hope the same goes for your sponsors."

**Flint**

I'm just wiping the corner of my mouth with a white muslin napkin, when I spot it for the first time. I abandon my empty plate and wander to the window. Mailo, the other tribute, joins my side, and together we stare, open-mouthed, at the gleaming architecture of the Captiol. It is a grid, a circuit board cracked by straight roads, bridges and rivers. The closer we draw into the station, the more I realise how clean everything is. They must have an army of Avoxes to scrub every inch of the city in the night.

My heart starts beating viciously as hundreds, no, _thousands_ of faces come into view. Smiles are plastered on all of them, ranging from welcoming to downright hysterical. I am suddenly very afraid to step off this train, where it's been so smooth and quiet for the last twenty-four hours.

"Oh boy," Mailo says aloud. Poor kid, he's only thirteen. I find myself patting his back in some kind of solidarity.

"Just what I was thinking."

We're told by Titus, our mentor, not to show our nerves, because every moment we're out there will be recorded and played back as part of the pre-Games footage. Yeah, that's reassuring.

We stand before the door as we wait for it to slide open. When it does, a wall of sound hits us and I almost fall down the steps. People are squealing with excitement, camera bulbs are flashing everywhere…this is _crazy_. Nonetheless, I grin manically, as if hooks are tugging at the corners of my mouth. My fingers flutter in the most ladylike way I can manage. It's about as far away from me as you could possibly get.

**Logan**

Oh…Sweet…Birches. And here I was thinking I'd get killed by a spear in the chest; turns out vast crowds of over-excited Capitolists are just as deadly. I'd be rooted to the shiny floor in fear if it weren't for Johanna Mason's strong hand propelling me through the ocean of people.

"Don't worry, Logan," I hear her shout over the clamour. "Just walk straight and you'll be at the centre in no time."

Her other hand is pushing the fourteen-year old tribute, Hady Jackal, who looks even more terrified than I must do.

I feel a massive wave of relief swoop over me when we get to the breezy, peaceful lobby, the glass doors taking the shrieks of the crowd with them as they close. I take my glasses off and rest my knuckle on my forehead for a second.

As soon as we're in, however, Johanna ushers us both into an elevator and presses one of a mind-boggling fifty buttons. Up we zoom, my breath getting left behind somewhere on the ground floor. We get to level thirty-four or something, and are a little too enthusiastically wrenched out by the arms. I guess these are our fabled prep teams, and they look very bit as weird as I'd imagined: green hair with purple streaks, feathers and diamonds glued onto fake nails, glass platform shoes…and that's just the men.

**Dan**

OH **** THAT'S PAINFUL. OW OW OW…

"Hope that didn't sting too much, dahling," drawls my leg-waxer.

"Oh, not at all," I reply, dying inside. Out of the corner of my eye I catch my mentor Woof (I know, I can't get over it either) sauntering past.

"Doing okay there?"

"I could stay here forever."

"Ha. Well, let's just hope they don't wax your legs down to the _bone_, hey, _Whitebone_?"

Hilarious.

The grooming session is never-ending. I wonder how much of my own skin will be left after all this waxing, tweezing, creaming and steaming. I feel my face flush as I'm stripped to my boxers, given a brief but focused once-over, and then herded into another, smaller, room. I see a rail fit to bursting with jackets, pants and who knows what else, and three wall-length mirrors.

I meet my stylist. Her name is Emilia, and she also calls me "dahling". I count the seconds until I can get dressed again.

"Okay, okay, so…I am thinking this year… silver. All over."

Oh _no_. She better not be thinking of body-painting. It wouldn't be the first time that's happened for a chariot procession.

It turns out to be not quite that extreme, but it's still wild: when I finally get to look in the mirrors, I see myself in a pair of smart grey jeans, not too skinny, not too baggy. On my feet are boots, a lot like the ones the steel workers wear back home, spray-painted silver. And my upper body and face are indeed painted so that I look like a walking railroad track. Emilia's fastened an even shinier helmet to my head, and, to give me some edge, a silver dog tag to "complete the artistic vision" as she says it.

I can only hope the other tributes look just as ridiculous.

**Thorn**

I feel my nerves kick in again as I'm escorted to where the chariots are stored backstage. Thank goodness we're moving slowly, because I can keep my breathing steady that way. I feel really sorry for my partner tribute, though; his limp is the reason we're being so pedestrian.

I secretly revel in the fact that I've never felt so refreshed and cleaned up in my entire life. After a _lot_ of waxing, moisturizing, exfoliating and hair-washing, I feel good enough to walk with my head high. For once, the District Ten stylists decided to forgo the cowboy-theme to tie in with our livestock industry. Okay, maybe forgo is too strong a word, but they've at least been flexible enough to make us look, well, _stylish_.

As we stand in the elevator, I think about what my stylist, Giuliano, gave me as his number-one tip:

"The best way to make an impression early on is to walk to your chariot, past the other tributes, like you own the place. You look fabulous, so work it with all your might."

He's got a point. I'm certainly not going to do myself any favours by slouching and staring at the floor. I look good enough to walk with my head high.

The doors open, and the male tribute, Kiko, gestures for me to go first. I have a fleeting moment of self-conscious panic before I get my head in the game and…I can't believe I'm saying this…I _strut_ to our chariot, which is at the far end of the huge room.

I notice heads turning, and try not to let my heart rate get too rapid. I know they, tributes and stylists alike, are staring at my outfit: knee-high golden boots, a matching miniskirt that sheens with glitter dust, a gold vest accompanied by a thin, light and transparent jacket which flows behind me, the sleeves trailing just off my wrists. My eyes have been adorned with, you guessed it, gold eyeliner, and my cheeks and collarbone have been dusted with gold sparkles. To top it off, my head is adorned with a gold cowboy hat (they just didn't seem to be able to let the theme go completely), and I even dare to tap the brow up playfully, to drive the point home.

When we finally reach the awaiting chariot, I want to collapse onto it as I exhale jaggedly. Kiko nudges my elbow. He's dressed in an almost identical outfit, save for the skirt and jacket.

"Hey, nice job. Even the Careers look like they envy you."

I dare to look back, just for a moment. Although my expression gives nothing away, I instantly wish I hadn't.

Even from the other end of the room, I can see the piercing gaze being sent my way from the District Two tributes. It's hard not to remember them from the Reaping Day playback: Clove, who is small but looks lethal, bores her large dark eyes into mine, as if to say, _I will skin you alive_. Her partner-in-crime, Cato, is at least six foot tall, with arms that look strong enough to lift me, my sister and my Mom over his head. He gives me a very different look, of a more appreciative kind, but the longer it lasts, the more it sends shivers down my spine. I leap at the opportunity to step onto the chariot.


	4. The Procession

**Chapter Four**

**The Procession**

**Author's Note****: So, guess what? Because I didn't update on Sunday, here's a double helping of new chapters! **

**Also, I just realised I made a factual error with Dan's costume: because he's from District 8, not 6, it should really be of a "textiles" theme more than "transportation"…still, that's why it's called suspending your disbelief, right? *****shuffles away awkwardly***

**Legal****: Don't own the Hunger Games etc. etc.**

**Ash**

Backstage isn't actually as hectic as I expected. It's definitely less so than our individual styling sessions, where my prep team were constantly removing clothes and adding new pieces whilst trying to shout over each other to declare who had the most fashion sense.

In the end, they followed the familiar marine motif of District Four - I have to walk to our chariot as slowly as possible without looking odd, because my cobalt blue skirt was designed with a mermaid tail in mind, and it trails behind me, obscuring my feet. The top half of this outfit is a lighter blue strapless corset, which I can just about breathe in, made of large, scale-like sequins. A seashell comb pins my brown hair back, and my arms are unadorned apart from a silver bangle with a single anchor charm on it.

I'm not going to lie: I feel pretty.

**Flint**

I watch District Five get carted off into the dazzling light, towards the ear-shattering screams of ecstasy from the crowds. I swear, from the images they're showing on the screens backstage, the entire population of the Capitol has flocked here for the spectacle.

I breathe in through my nose, and exhale through a partition in my lips. I hope I don't overheat out there; even the walk to the tribute centre was a challenge because of all the photos being snapped.

A jerk, followed by motion from our own chariot, tells me we're off. Our turn to make the biggest impression possible.

It takes a lot for me not to gasp and shriek at the same time: there are so. Many. People. And there's my face! On an enormous banner, in high definition, is my face. If my family's watching me in District Eight, they must be doing a double-take: my face is smothered in foundation that makes my skin glow, my eyes highlighted by eyeliner in three different metallic shades, and even my lips coated in this gloss that makes them look like they're liquid copper. I've been sewn into a bronze one-shoulder unitard, orange bracelets up to my bare forearm, and to finish it off, a reddish skirt is swathed around my hips. For the first time since I was little, my hair is down, blown behind my shoulders as the chariot rolls down the promenade.

As fierce as I convince myself I look, it's a relief buy the time we come to a halt underneath the podium of the Hunger Games officials, including President Snow. I deliver a sneaky fist-bump to Malio, who looks like he enjoyed the attention.

"Good job, kid."

"Thanks, Flint."

**Logan**

It's a very strange experience being at the centre of the attention of millions, and yet not being able to make out your own face on the magnificent banners. Neither my prep team nor my stylist have taken a liking to my glasses, and after a lot of futile pleading, I finally gave in to their insistence, on the condition that they kept them safely in a case backstage. They are, after all, the only pair I own.

In a lot of ways, though, I'm actually grateful that I can't see myself, because I feel incredibly exposed: trying to create a tree-Ancient Greece crossover for the occasion, my stylist Cassandra dressed me up in a _toga_ of all things, with some leafy vines to twine around my arms and chest. I still feel like I'm just standing on a chariot in my underwear, though. I just try not to look too flustered, and attempt to make out a coherent image of the other tributes.

All I see coming down in the way of District Eight are some very, _very_ shiny figures. An unmistakable round of catcalls, mostly from women, can be heard throughout the crowds.

**Dan**

This has got to be one of the most awkward experiences I've ever had in my life. Paint may cover every inch of my upper body, but that doesn't make me feel any less bare. I guess all I can do is smile and hope I don't end up all over the pages of glossy Capitol women's magazines.

Catching my image on the endless banners that line the low walls, it's shocking how alien I look compared to the ordinary Dan Whitebone people back home are so used to seeing very day.

As I relax a little more, I take a risk in order to make sure I stand out: getting a hold of the silver dog tag, I lift it off my neck, and start whisking it around my head high in the air. It works: somehow, the screams of the crowd get even crazier. I half-consider tossing it to someone, but decide against it, because that could very easily result in someone getting hit in the face. Instead, I lay my eyes on a random woman in the front row - a potential sponsor, perhaps? - and deliver my best wink and smile. She gasps and falls backwards into her seat, unconscious…okay, not quite what I was going for, but I have to go with the flow.

At last I can stop making such a spectacle of myself (my parents must be burning with embarrassment right now) as the chariot comes to rest on the left side in the tributes' circle. As I quickly sweep the other pairs with my eyes, I nearly jump with fright when I get to Districts One and Two.

The Careers clearly don't like being showed up: Marvel and Glimmer (even thinking their names makes me want to jump off a bridge somewhere) who are clad in head-to-toe crimson unitards, look like they're trying to disintegrate me with their Stares of Evil. Clove and Cato, the two killing machines, aren't any more welcoming. Cato especially is narrowing his eyes at me, almost sizing me up like I'm a threat that needs immediate elimination…which is exactly what I am.

**Thorn**

Okay stay calm stay calm stay calm stay calm… this is so intense. I'd just better not pass out again.

I can feel my fingers shaking uncontrollably, so I give them something to do: some impulse takes over, making one hand grab the edge of my cowboy hat, taking it off my head and fanning myself with it, while the other ruffles the back of my hair so it can fly in the breeze. I put on my brightest smile - the one I save for special occasions, or when I need to ask someone for a big favour.

The crowd, still recovering after District Eight's performance, up the volume even more. I get a couple of flowers thrown my way, although I can only catch one: a white lily. I close my eyes for a second and drink in its scent, like one of the calming remedies we make back home.

It's over remarkably quickly, for which I'm glad. You might say I'm even pleased with myself. I've never had to sustain the attention of so many people for more than two minutes, so this is obviously a huge step for me.

The moment I see where District Two are parked, I make sure I look in the exact opposite direction. I don't even want to acknowledge Cato's presence; he creeps me out too much.

Thankfully, something happens which draws everyone's attention back to the start of the promenade. Thousands of people, me included, gasp all at once as we take in the masterpiece that is District Twelve's chariot. The tributes, Peeta and Katniss, put us all to shame, because they're _on fire_. Like, actually on fire, flames flaring up from their sleek black capes. How are they not burning alive? It must be some special effect…whatever it is, it's by far the most impressive thing seen this evening. Roses go flying in a cascade, especially towards Katniss.

The weird thing is, I feel like it's okay to briefly forget about the fact that we might well have to kill each other at some point, and start clapping and cheering her on. Of course, it's a measly effort compared to the Capitolists, but it's enough for the girl from District Four, Ash, to join in. And then the girl from District Six, the tiny girl from District Eleven, and the male tribute from District Eight (or Hot Silver Guy as I now think of him) pick up on it too.

The next thing I know, at least half of us are showing signs of support for District Twelve, the one which is consistently sneered at for being at the bottom of the hierarchy.

District Snow must be about to speak, because when District Twelve's chariot draws up in line with the rest of us, the hysteria of the Capitol at last starts to die down.

Without thinking I let my gaze wander to my left, and then I see Cato glaring at me. My smile fades, and I stop clapping. My fingers start shaking again.


	5. Good Morning, Good Morning

**Chapter Five**

**Good Morning, Good Morning**

**Author's Note****: Hey, readers. Thanks for getting this far! Listen, I'd like to apologise for any proofreading errors you may have seen in the past couple of chapters. My "manage stories" tab is being annoying and won't make the changes, so sorry about that. I promise to be more vigilant :^)**

**Legal: ****You know the drill. **

**Ash**

Back home I'm used to being gently woken up by the sound of the sea. Here, I get a high-pitched whistle right in my ear. I get tangled in my sheets and roll off the bed onto the floor.

"What? What's happening? Fire drill? What!" I stumble into a standing position, and see Finnick up and dressed in a turquoise suit, a manic grin on his face.

"Rise and shine, gorgeous. Get something to eat, then dress and I'll meet you and Dyon in the hall in precisely twenty minutes. If you're late, I will leave without you and you'll have to do the walk of shame into the training centre, capiche?"

While I'm not entirely sure what "capiche" means, I comply and exit the bedroom, still half-asleep. There are small mountains of breakfast food lining the long table. Dyon is already sitting on a navy stool, tucking into an omelette.

"Morning."

"Morning."

That's about as far as we get in terms of speaking. I tie a knot in my dressing gown, rub sleep out of my eyes and grab a plate. I have to eat quickly, so I take what's in front of me: a brilliantly yellow banana, a tall glass of cow's milk, and a pastry thing that vaguely resembles a mushroom. I have to remember to call it a "muffin" now.

After devouring my meal, I get up from my stool and rush back to my room. I've only got ten minutes, and I really don't want to have to do the "walk of shame". As I catch sight of the digital clock on my bedside table, however, I think Finnick must be overly-keen: it's half-past six. Seriously?

Then again, maybe this is when all the Careers head down to the training centre. Extra hours before the main show starts. Come to think of it, that makes a lot of sense. Just hope they don't try and single me out as target practice.

My stylist, who seems to have been trained in the art of stealth, has been in and out of the room without my noticing, because my training outfit is all laid out on the bedspread, which has been neatly made.

Five minutes later, I've discarded my night clothes and pulled on a navy sports bra with a pair of matching shorts, as well as a light jacket, wristguards, white socks, and a bouncy pair of sneakers with an electric blue streak down the sides. It doesn't look half bad.

**Flint**

Titus decides it would be fun to blow an airhorn in my face at half seven this morning until I leap out of bed. I am not amused.

There's a lot of breakfast waiting for us - again - but the variety overwhelms me. All I want it what will give me the most long-lasting energy, because from what I've seen in Titus' little schedule, Mailo and I have a lot of hours to put in for training. In the end, I select a nut and seed bar, a smoothie, which is basically lots of different fruits chopped up and blended together, and a white roll. I eat all of this standing up, too anxious to get down to the training centre to sit still. It's not that I'm dying to workout until I collapse - I'm a lot more interested in sizing up the competition, figuring out their strengths and weaknesses, and maybe even seeing who I could ally with. The chances of me getting into the Career Pack, which inevitably forms every Hunger Games, are slim to say the least, but I could use a kind-of-friend in the arena in case I run into serious problems.

The three of us march towards the elevator in silence. I think Mailo's too nervous to make conversation, and I can't blame him. When we're standing in the glass cuboid, I start fidgeting, tugging down the sleeves of my grey training hoodie, which covers a white sports vest and blue pair of shorts. I like the feel of my sneakers: light, padded and with a lot of spring power. My long dark hair is tied back in a high ponytail.

As the doors slide open, I realise I was mistaken in thinking that they would reveal the training floor right away. Instead, we have to walk down a windowless granite hallway, at the end of which are another, bigger, set of doors. I'd rather not see my breakfast again, but if my nerves get the better of me, that might just happen.

**Logan**

I don't believe this: I've worn glasses for over ten years, and now Cassandra has informed me only this morning that she decided to chuck them away. Now, I'm a reasonable person, but I'm so furious with her that I've decided to cease speaking to her until I'm in the arena.

I have to wear contacts now, and it feels so _weird_: I keep pushing frames up my nose that are no longer there, and I have to keep remembering not to rub my eyes.

My training outfit seems pretty standard: black legging and a matching short-sleeved jacket, with a green trim. Juxtaposed with my red hair, and I could be a human-carrot muttation.

Johanna's once again a little too acerbic, her one piece of advice during the elevator ride being "try to die in the least painful way possible." Or maybe that's just her advice for me, because I can tell she doesn't have very high hopes. Hady's got a better chance than me, and she's three years younger than me, not to mention half my size. Oh, sorry, I mean _Jackal_. Honestly, as if Johanna wasn't weird enough, she's decided our first names don't exist anymore.

"Trust me you guys, Logan and Jackal sound a hundred times more catchy than Hady and Tom. We've gotta get some personality into you otherwise no one will bother to be your sponsor."

Did I mention how tactful she is?

**Dan**

I didn't get to bed until late last night, because I spent hours scrubbing off that damn body paint until my skin was red. It looks a little better this morning, but I'm still sore. At least my jacket and pants cover me up.

On our way to the training centre, I etch onto my brain a tip from Woof that is probably the most useful thing he's said to me thus far:

"Now, mentors tend to disagree on this, but I say that it's a big mistake to show your talent in front of the other tributes. Even if you suck at everything else, it's better to lure the competition into a false sense of security and save the fireworks for the individual showcases."

Thing is, I'm only an "expert", if you can call it that, in two things: threading stitches, and sprinting. Both very useful if I get cut or need to outrun somebody fast, but how I'm going to make a performance out of either of these things is beyond me.

But I'm trying not to worry about that now. Live in the now, that's always a good motto to follow in situations like these.

**Thorn**

I don't say anything from our room to the training centre, because I'm trying to give myself a pep-talk, "get in the zone", you might say. I play with the zip on my black jacket to give my hands something to do. Underneath it is a white vest and black three-quarter leggings. Ankle socks and a pair of professional sneakers are on my feet, which I swear have never felt so comfy. I rock on my heels to break them in before I start moving around.

When I see the ominous grey doors at the entrance to the training centre, I have half a mind to turn around and run back. But obviously that's not going to happen. I've already got two strikes against me: fainting on stage at the Reaping, and letting my confidence slip in front of Cato. Anything more and there's no way I'll be taken seriously.

At breakfast Kiko pulled up his pant leg to reveal a leg support bandage. He's still limping a little, but it's a lot less noticeable than yesterday. Honestly, every time I have a moment of panic or self-pity, I look at him, this poor crippled kid, and shut myself right up.

Our mentor won't be joining us on the training floor, so he just gives us hearty pats on the shoulders, warbles "so long!" and waltzes straight back into the glass elevator.

There's a long pause.

"One of us is gonna have to open the door at some point," Kiko points out. I sigh and prepare myself for the worst. I punch in the code we've been given, and the doors open with a swoosh.


	6. Training

**Chapter Six**

**Training**

**Author's Note****: I know, I'm having so much fun with this story I decided to post 2 chapters again :^) Don't expect it every day though, otherwise I'll fall asleep at my laptop and all you'll see on the screen is a chapter of "zzzzz".**

**Again, please review!**

**Legal****: See previous.**

**Ash**

Wow. And I don't necessarily mean that in a good way.

There are only seven people in this room: Marvel and Glimmer from District One, Cato and Clove from District Two, me and Dyon and, bizarrely, a guy from District Eleven whose name I seem to remember is Thresh. I'm staying well away from him, thank you very much.

They can't have been here very long: they're each warming up in their own way - Marvel is doing these weird robotic arm exercises, like he's trying to imitate a bird, while Glimmer is trying, and failing, to bend over backwards. Amateur…

Clove, small and wiry, is rotating her wrists in endless circles. Thresh is…leaning against a wall, elbows up, as if he's trying to move it. Okay then…

Even warming up, Cato terrifies me. There's not an ounce of excess fat on his tall body, and he's doing bicep curls with weights that I wouldn't use if I'd been toning my arms for years. I can only gulp.

It's he who makes our arrival known to the other Careers.

"Well, well, well. Look who's decided to be the early bird."

The others pause in their rituals to give me and Dyon gleeful smiles. We're clearly not welcome.

Slowly, I take a step forward, putting my water bottle on one of the benches.

"I could say the same for you."

He laughs. What's funny about that?

"Just saying - this slot tends to be for those of us who are more athletically…conditioned than the likes of you two."

Oh, if only he knew about my family history. I try not to get ruffled, and instead wave Dyon over. Poor guy - he's lurking in the shadows.

"Well, we'll see about that, won't we?" I say, striding over to the other side of the floor. I hear Dyon shuffle quickly to my side. When I look over my shoulder I see everyone, except Thresh, who's in a zone of his own, is still glaring at us.

"Oh don't let us put you off," I say in as cheery a manner as possible, making my ponytail tighter. "Please, go back to…whatever it is you're doing."

They oblige, but only because a trainer has walked into the room with a clipboard and is starting to set things up. I lean against the wall and, as if my spine is a string of pearls, gradually move down until my hands clasp my ankles. I secretly smile to myself: they're dead wrong if they think I'll be playing by the rules of their games.

**Flint**

When Mailo and I walk in, I'm grateful that some other non-Careers are already here. The tributes from Four and Five look like they've just finished warming up, and I kinda wish, in spite of the airhorn, that Titus had got us up earlier.

I go and sit on a bench, scanning the different stations based around the room, their names written up on signs: archery; spear and sword work; camouflage; knot-tying; plant-identification; fire-kindling; knife-throwing; treadmills; competition and chin-up bars; hurdles; hell, they've even got a balance beam and a _metal_ _tree_ in here. And as I tap my feet on the floor, I realise it's spring-loaded.

I am both awed and intimidated. What am I gonna start with? I remember something about there being compulsory exercises, but I also need to know where my strengths will be best brought out.

There are three things I excel in: throwing, jumping, and long distance running. I see Mailo intrepidly taking a tour around the stations for himself, but I'm happier sitting back to strategise until we have our introductory talk. I should save either throwing or jumping for the individual showcase, because let's be real here, it's impossible to make jogging round and round a room look exciting.

I glance at the Careers when they're not looking. Glimmer and Marvel look only moderately threatening. It's Cato and Clove who I'm worried about: she's sitting cross-legged on the floor polishing an alarming number of knives, and he's doing endless chin-ups on the highest bar. But I guess that's what you get when you go to an illegal Academy.

**Logan**

Jackal and I walk into a huge gymnasium, with equipment that is so advanced, were it not for the signs, I wouldn't know what half of it was.

My heart leaps, though, when I catch sight of a full-scale metal tree replica. Finally, there's hope for me and my skinny physique!

A woman, who I'm guessing is the head trainer, stands on a circular platform, and she's beginning to call people over: I guess we got here just in time.

I hear the doors open and close, open and close, and sure enough behind us the rest of the tributes flock in. It takes me a minute to recognise the guy from District Eight, whose body paint almost blinded me last night during the chariot procession. His partner is a small girl not unlike Jackal.

All twenty-four of us gather round the head trainer, whose name we learn is Atlasa. I try to pay attention to everything she tells us, about the dangers of exposure and how we're forbidden from fighting with other tributes before going into the arena, but can't stop myself from getting a good look at my potential killers.

The Careers cause fear to spike in my heart, especially that Cato, who catches me staring and narrows his eyes. I suddenly become fascinated with my sneakers. When it's safe to continue watching, however, I feel a little more reassured by the presence of the small girl, Rue, from District Eleven. Her other tribute, Thresh, on the other hand, looks tall and intense, like someone only an idiot would try and cross.

I can't quite figure out the girls from Districts Five and Six. One looks like she was a fox in a former life, with wide blue eyes. The other, Flint, has her hands behind her back and stands up straight, like a soldier on duty. They're too enigmatic for me to decide if they're more likely to be allies or enemies.

Ashes, the girl from Four, meets my gaze, and I feel very embarrassed. To my surprise, though, she sends a hint of a smile my way before re-directing her attention to Atlasa.

The next thing I know, everyone has dispersed and there's a hand waving in front of my face. It's the girl from District Ten, whose name I've suddenly forgotten.

"Sorry, you were just kinda…staring into space," she says with a weak smile. She moves in for a handshake, and I know right then and there with relief that she's harmless. I accept it.

"I'm Thorn."

"I'm T - uh, Logan."

"Nice to meet you."

"Are you sure about that?" I ask. "I'm not exactly a Career, so if you're thinking of an alliance, I'd advise you to raise your standards a little."

A look of pity mixed with immediate understanding crosses her face. Her eyes have dark circles under them.

"Hey, if it makes you feel any better, I'm a little doubtful of my own standards. I was the one who passed out during the Reaping, remember?"

_Oh yeah…_

We chuckle, and then a look from her tells me the gamemaker, Seneca Crane, and our potential sponsors are watching, so we wordlessly decide to get one of the compulsory exercises over and done with.

**Dan**

It turns out my camouflage skills are better than I'd anticipated - but then, coming from District Eight, where textiles and dyes are all over the place, I guess it only makes sense. According to the trainer at that station, I have a "real eye for shade and texture".

Nice to hear, but I also want to show I'm physically strong as well, so I head straight on over to the chin-up bars and hang on for a minute or so, doing leg lifts at the same time. It's harder than it looks, and when I jump down, I take up a pair of weights and start building up some muscle.

I've been happily doing this for about ten minutes, when out of nowhere I get pushed in the shoulder. I fall off the bench and spring up immediately.

_Oh. Jeez. _It's Cato, the unnaturally ripped tribute from Two. He and I haven't even exchanged a word the whole time we've been here, so why the hell is he giving me a death stare?

"You. Did you take my knife?"

"What?"

"Are you stupid or something? I said did you take my knife! My knife was right there on that bench and now it's gone. What did you do with it?"

I calmly set down my weights without breaking eye contact, and raise my hands.

"Whoa, whoa, man, I don't know what you're talking -"

"Don't lie to me! Where the hell is my knife?"

Everyone in the gym has stopped what they're doing. I'm getting impatient.

"Dude, I didn't. Touch. Your knife."

His hands shove me backwards again, and I have to exercise my self-control to the max to stop myself from retaliating. Out of the corner of my eye I see the trainers rushing to get the Peacekeepers.

"TELL ME WHERE IT IS OR I'LL KILL YOU!"

That does it.

"I DIDN'T TOUCH YOUR DAMN KNIFE, YOU B-"

I don't get to finish my sentence, though, because he gets me in a headlock. Oh man oh man oh man why is no one helping me? Can't breathe…

"Hey! Leave him alone and keep your anger management issues to yourself!"

We both look up.

**Thorn**

…Did I just say that? I shiftily look from side to side at the many stunned expressions of the other tributes. Guess it was me.

Cato looks taken aback for a microsecond, and then drops Hot Silver Guy to the floor, who promptly clutches his throat and gasps for air.

Oh no. Oh no no no no _what did I just do?_ He's facing me now. No, strike that, he's staring _down_ at me. How I haven't fainted yet is frankly a miracle.

His face is so close to mine I can make out the individual streaks in his green eyes. His voice is a sharp, bone-rattling whisper:

"Or. What?"

At this point I'm inclined to crash through the nearest window as an escape plan, or start retching. But apparently there's a third option.

I sock him in the nose, followed by a swift kick to the gut. As he stumbles backwards I assume the defence position: feet one behind the other, fists raised, thumbs over the other fingers to create a tight ball.

There are a few unmistakable gasps from tributes, trainers and sponsors alike. Cato looks murderous with rage, but mid-pounce, a pair of Peacekeepers get a grip on his arms. At the same time, a third peacekeeper practically flies from a corner of the room and tackles me to the ground, even though I'm standing perfectly still, having just acted in self-defence…well, kind of.

The head trainer Atlasa steps in looking furious.

"That's enough! I swear if I catch any of you being violent again, I will throw you into solitary confinement and keep you there to feed to the other tributes in the arena! Understood?"

She throws warning looks at Hot Silver Guy, Cato and me. We all give curt nods in reply, which is slightly harder for me considering my head and arms are pinned down on the floor.

"Good. And that goes for all of you. Now get these two some first aid," she says to the Peacekeepers, who take Cato and Hot Silver Guy aside. Atlasa rolls her eyes, and gestures for my Peacekeeper to get off me.

"For goodness' sake, Radleigh, she's a tribute, not a weapon of mass destruction."

I try and get up as gracefully as possible, dusting myself off and rubbing my wrists. How am I supposed to recover from this?

The minute Atlasa's back is turned, however, I catch Ashes giving me a big thumbs-up, and Flint silently pats her hands in symbolic applause. Logan passes by and, with an arm around my shoulder, steers me away behind the metal tree in the far corner of the room. I owe him big time.

On our way, he whispers something in my ear:

"That was frickin' awesome."

**Ash**

A few hours after the epic scuffle between Dan, Cato and Thorn (who _knew_?) things calmed down and the three of them stayed far away from each other. That being said, I caught a glimpse of her and Dan at the archery station. As she strung an arrow, he subtly leaned over her shoulder and seemed to thank her. I know it was something positive because she smiled with her eyes as well as her teeth.

I look over at the clock. We have one hour until lunch. Thank goodness, because while I think I made a sensible choice at breakfast, hunger's starting to creep up on me.

Note to self: the first thing to do in the Games is find a food source, or I'm toast. Oh damn it, now I'm craving toast.

I've done almost all the stations now, and aside from archery and knot-tying, which I failed miserably at, it's not looking too bad at all for me.

Of course, in the Hunger Games, you can't get away with just passing the class. You want to survive, you have to ace the final exam. I want so, so badly to let myself reveal my hidden talent, but unless I can find I good enough reason, it's not worth it.

I finish up on fire-kindling and head to the net-climbing station. It looks tricky: the concept of climbing it is simple enough, but this net is built at a weird angle, and it twists, which make sit doubly difficult. Still, I've got to try everything.

I place my foot in the rigging, and get a steady hold. I claw my way up about six feet off the ground, but after that I start struggling. My upper body strength is well above average for a girl of my height and stature, but the way this thing is twisting…I can't get…ahold of it…properly…

I can't help but squeak loudly as I lose my grip and fall onto the hard mat beneath. Right on my elbow. OW OW OW…

I roll onto my back and clutch it, feeling tears prick my eyes as the pain shoots all the way up my arm. I don't think I've fractured it, but that doesn't lessen the sharp ache. I feel a trainer help me sit up, and then stand. When I raise my head I see I've attracted the sympathy of some of the tributes, as well as unwanted attention from the Careers.

I wipe my eyes quickly before the tears can spill out, and try to keep wincing to a minimum. The trainer helps me slowly remove my jacket to get a closer look at my elbow. He gets out a small pot of cream and starts rubbing it onto the bruise that's quickly starting to form.

I am not in the least bit pleased by the jeers and catcalls I'm getting from Marvel, Glimmer, Clove and Cato. Sadists.

"What's the matter, Four?" calls Clove, twirling one of her many knives in her right hand. "Is the pain too much for a little girl like you?"

When the trainer lowers my elbow back down and walks away, I waste no time in retorting.

"That's rich coming from you, Pint-Sized."

That shuts her up.

I move away from the net, resolving not to go near it again for a considerable amount of time. I put my elbow in my opposite hand and try moving it back and forth. Pain spikes up each time, but it's tolerable now. What do they put in that stuff from the first aid kits?

It seems I'm turning into exactly what I feared: the Careers' verbal punch bag.

"Come on, Four, be serious," says Marvel, looking down his nose at me. "You're not the most pathetic tribute here -"

"Aw, _thank you_," I say with my hand over my heart, before rolling my eyes. He looks miffed at being interrupted. So much the better.

"As I was saying, you're not terrible, but you're not one of us. And it's sort of comical how you're going round here, sampling all the stations when it's clear you don't actually have any real talent."

"Yeah, Four," Glimmer joins in, arms crossed. "I mean, what can you do that the rest of us can't? It's sad, really."

They all laugh. My patience is wearing thin, and I clench my fists in rising anger.

"Oh, is Four going to throw a tantrum? Go and sulk in a corner? Go crying to Mommy and Daddy?" Cato says tauntingly.

Okay. Now I have a damn good reason to show him, all of them, what's what.

Not many people back home know this, but I come from a very interesting background. Ever since the days even before the uprising, before the very establishment of Panem, my ancestor was, according to my mother and grandmother, a gold-medal gymnastics champion in an ancient sporting ritual called "The Olympics". It's been tradition ever since then for the women in our family to train their daughters from a young age in gymnastics, from tumbling to bar and beam work. Every morning of my life since I was six years old has been devoted to building up strength in my arms, flexibility training, practicing stunts and perfecting my agility.

I am Ash Maxim, gymnast in a very, very long line. I can't wait to relish this moment. I turn to Cato, hands on my hips (ignoring my injured elbow) look him directly in his cold eyes, and smirk.

"I'll tell you what I'm going to do. I'm going to prove you, every one of you, wrong. Right here. Right now."

He looks incredulous, but my expression remains stoic.

"Is that so?"

"Damn straight. Now sit back and watch."

Amazingly, all four of them comply, but it's out of the prospect to make more fun of me.

Okay, I've gotta go through with this now. No turning back.

I turn on my heel and, as I do a quick stretch of my calves and neck, I devise a routine.

I move on to the furthest corner of the room and turn around when I get there. Even from that distance I can hear the Careers snickering.

"Can I get a clear path, please?" I announce loudly to the rest of the room, inadvertently getting everyone else's attention. Intrigue is building. With my hand, I line up my feet with the other corner of the gym. I exhale deeply, close my eyes, and then I'm ready to go.

Taking a run-up, I launch straight into a cartwheel, followed by a front handspring; roundoff; cartwheel with two hands, one hand, no hands. Back handspring, roundoff, backflip, once, twice in the air, then I land and, taking full advantage of the spring in my step and the floor, I bounce off the momentum and proceed to repeat exactly what I've done in the direction I just came in. It takes so much concentration, and it pays off: I land both feet on the imaginary "x" I've made in my head.

I don't stop there. The balance beam is to my left, and I throw myself in a cartwheel onto it. One foot in front of the other, I hurtle into a front flip. Land. Repeat in other direction, then back handspring. Cartwheel, backflip. Land in centre. Then I get my leg up straight and horizontal, arms out and ready, core muscles tight, before launching into three tight fouettés, one after the other. I bend my knee in and continue twirling, then pause long enough to do a front flip off the beam altogether.

I want to catch their expressions, but refuse myself for now. I take another run -up and execute a series of front handsprings, roundoffs and finish with another front flip.

I am now directly underneath the competition-bar, just low enough for me to jump up and get a grip on it. Tensing my core, I raise myself into a handstand above the bar, carefully bending my legs and lowering myself onto my forearms. It is _so. Painful. _But the thought of showing up the Careers keeps me going, and I return to a handstand. I trust my own strength enough to let ease my grip so that I go swinging on a full 360-degree turn once, twice, three, four, five times. Pause. Change hands. Repeat. Finally, I let go altogether, twirling in the air with my entire body rigid (point toes point toes point toes POINT TOES).

And then I'm standing tall, having successfully landed feet together. I want to remember this moment as vividly as possible, so I throw my arms up in the air, fingers pointing to the sky, and front leg pointed and turned out.

Winning smile.

The response is better than I could have possibly hoped for: cheers and applause break out across the gym. I see Thorn and Dyon going crazy from the benches. Even tributes I haven't even made eye contact with - Peeta and Katniss from District Twelve, for instance, show their appreciation.

I risk milking it a little too much, but I can't resist my impulse to turn and face Seneca Crane, the gamemaker, and the audience of sponsors, in order to take as poised a curtsey as I can deliver in my condition - I'm now dripping with sweat, my bangs are sticking to my forehead, and I'm almost screaming for breath.

Then the sound of the whistle for our lunch break cuts through the applause. The timing could not have been more perfect, because I would have felt really awkward if I'd had to just stand there and wait for it to die down by itself.

As people start filing out, I see some of the trainers, including Atlasa, give me encouraging looks of approval.

I then slowly rotate and, brushing hair out of my face, stroll on over to where the Careers are still sitting to get my jacket. Their expressions. Are. Priceless. All four of them look like their jaws have been surgically altered to hang open permanently.

Taking my sweet time to pick up my jacket from the bench next to Cato, I toss it in the air and catch it again. Before I swerve on my heel to join the others for a well-deserved lunch, I rest one hand on my hip and raise an eyebrow.

"You were saying?"


	7. Showcase

**Chapter Seven**

**Showcase**

**Author's Note:**** Many thanks to my reviewers so far :^) Keeps me going! As for the rest of you… I'm flattered that so many of you are taking the time to read this, but seriously, reviews make a writer's day, so please take a minute (literally how long it takes) to write a few words. Cheers!**

**Legal-ness:**** See the fine print if you're really thinking of suing me. Electron microscope required.**

**Ash**

The Careers stay well away from me the next day, occasionally sending me daggers with their eyes from across the training floor. I'm careful not to show off any more, otherwise I'll really struggle during the individual showcases - which, by the way, I'm feeling physically nauseous about as every hour ticks closer. These things make or break your chances of getting sponsors. And, as Finnick persistently drills into mine and Dyon's heads, sponsors mean parachute packages. And packages mean tools for survival. Which means you might actually live to see the end of the Games.

But I try not to think that far ahead, because compared to so many of these tributes, the scenario of being crowned Victor is too improbable for me.

Lunches during the three days of training turn out not to be as awkward as I'd imagined. One and Two claim the table in the middle of the room, just in case we'd missed the memo that they own these Games. Katniss and Peeta, that mysterious pair from District Twelve, always sit in the corner, discussing, from the looks of it, bread…whatever works.

The rest of us kind of scatter ourselves. Thresh and tiny Rue, both from Eleven, and the girl from Five with a fox face, all sit alone. But not in a way that makes any of them look weak. Me, I can't do that. I feel too self-conscious if I eat by myself. Maybe that's what comes of having siblings.

In any case, when I got lunch on the first day, having just tumbled harder than a washing machine, I was keen to sit with anyone that would have me.

So I set my tray opposite Flint, the girl from Six. There was a brief, slightly terrifying moment when she first looked up, all sharp and on guard, as if assessing me. Then she went back to her food, making the smallest gesture with her fork that I could sit down.

We didn't say a word the entire hour. But for some reason, it didn't bother me.

This strange little routine happens twice more after that. But because the third afternoon is devoted to the showcases, we get an extra five minutes of waiting before having to go to the corridor outside the training floor for…more waiting.

Flint and I sit back, plates clean. She wipes her mouth with a napkin and, screwing it up into a ball, chucks it on her tray, where it slowly unfolds again.

Now it feels awkward. I tap my fingers on the tabletop and decide to risk it:

"So, what are you going to do?"

She takes a while to answer, mainly because I think she's so shocked that I'm actually trying to make conversation. Evenly, she finally says:

"None of your business."

Owch. But then, would I tell her if she asked the same question? Probably not. I try again.

"You're right; sorry…" What to say, what to say? "So…uh…what's District Six like?"

"It's alright, I guess. Never been anywhere else," Flint responds, shrugging, arms crossed. "Not a lot to see, just buildings and stuff. Lots of trams, though."

"Oh yeah, you guys do transportation."

"Mm."

Another awkward silence. Or maybe it's just awkward for me.

"Yours?" she asks.

"Oh, I love it, really. Palm trees, long beaches, fresh sea breeze…I miss it a lot." It's the first time I've actually realised that I'll never see home again. Ever. A lump starts forming in my throat.

"I've never seen the sea," Flint muses, staring out of the glass observation window as the trainers set up the floor and show in the audience of sponsors. "Sounds great."

"It is."

And then Atlasa comes into the room, telling us to wait on the corridor benches. Flint and I get up and leave together, silence falling between us once again.

All twenty-four of us have to sit in numerical order, so I'm between Dyon and the District Five girl. I decide to call her The Fox.

Glimmer is the first to be called in. She practically bounces towards the door, pausing to smooth down her blonde hair and plaster on a big fake smile. She is too sickly sweet for my liking.

I survey the other tributes, and almost want to laugh out loud because we're all trying to avoid making eye contact with each other.

Rue is so small her feet barely touch the ground, so she swings them gently back and forth. Logan, from Seven, who's near Flint, keeps blinking furiously, like he's got something in his eye.

Marvel goes. Then Clove, who probably can't wait to get the knives all to herself. Then Cato. I stare really hard at the floor until I'm sure he's through the doors.

I end up waiting half an hour before I hear my name over the speaker.

To be honest, walking in is the worst part. After that it's almost…easy. I announce my name, move to the competition bar, and do my stuff. I focus on my gymnastics there specifically because I also want to make it clear that in the arena, if there's water around, I'll know how to execute a dive properly.

I tumble into the centre of the room, and this time I incorporate some stretches they didn't see on the first day. I breathe deeply and feel the burn as my leg unfolds up in my hand until it's next to my head. Then I move down into the splits, bending over backwards until I can clasp my back ankle. Then I put my hands on either side of that leg and push up. It's tough, but steadily I push myself up onto that back leg until it's straight, and my other leg is up in the air. Then I flip myself over into my finishing standing position.

Glad it's over, I curtsey, not quite as flamboyantly as when I was doing it in front of the Careers, but enough to seem professional.

If I didn't know any better, I could swear I see Seneca Crane flash me a smile as I walk out of the exit door.

**Flint**

It's been almost an hour, and I am _so bored_. Watching Logan fiddle with his contacts can only be amusing for so long. Opposite me is Thorn, from Ten, and boy she is not good at keeping a cool head. She's been rocking back and forth, tapping her feet, untying and retying her hair, stretching her neck, and rubbing her palms like she's about to freeze. It is fricking annoying.

Five minutes after the boy from District Five has gone, I hear my name being called at long last. I can't get to the doors fast enough. I suddenly realise how keen I am to perform.

I walk to the centre of the floor, thinking about what I should do first.

"Flint Verdasa."

Seneca Crane nods for me to begin. Right. Okay. Here we go…

My eyes dart around the room until they land on the array of knives lined up on a tray, not too far from me. They'll do.

I gather up three or four, distancing myself from a map of the human body which lets you target all the vital organs. I take a moment to compose myself, and then launch one of the knives at the head. Thwack. Then the liver. Thwack. I take it up a notch, spinning on one foot, but keeping the target in line of sight. Hoping I won't mess this up, I chuck the other two knives in the direction of the kidneys and heart: thwack…clink.

I stop spinning and, to my horror, hear some of the sponsors snickering. My heart sinks as I see the fourth knife lying pathetically on the floor, having bounced off the metal frame.

I need to stay calm and recover. Next move, Flint, next move… I refuse to be mocked.

I dash for the knife, but instead of trying again from where I was standing, I tuck it into my sock and head for the hurdles. The sponsors are probably confused, but I'll demystify them by the time I'm through. Oh yes I will.

I take a long run up before launching myself over the first one, kicking my front leg out straight in front of me with the back leg tucked behind. Land. I do it again, this time higher. Land. Again. Again. Again. On the final hurdle I use my sneakers for all they're worth, and take a massive leap, this time twisting myself to the side so I do a quick toe-touch. I land lightly, and immediately roll forward on the ground, springing up into a standing position and praying with all my adrenalin that this will work.

I get the knife out of my sock and throw it at the body map in one swift movement. My breath catches in my lungs as the knife flies through the air.

Thwack.

Allowing myself a smile, I turn to face the sponsors and bow briskly.

"Thank you," says Seneca Crane, writing something on a clipboard. I wish I could get a more telling reaction, but at least they stopped laughing.

As I push open the exit door, I secretly clench my fist in victory.

**Logan**

It's not until Flint gets up that I realise how soon my turn is. I wish I could take something to calm my nerves - sweat keeps getting in my eyes, which my new Capitol contacts don't like one bit. I keep blinking, but that only worsens the problem.

Just as it's getting to the point where I want to rip my own eyes out, I hear "Thomas Logan" sound over the speaker.

Eep.

I shake my hands out and flex my wrists, moving to the spot in front of the sponsors and Seneca Crane. Of course I end up stuttering.

"T-Thomas Logan."

I turn around, and for a second I panic as I forget what exactly I'm good at doing. And then I look up at the metal tree, and relax. All I've got to do is pretend I'm back at home, out on the job with Dad. But for this to work properly, I'm going to have to make a request.

"C-could I um, possibly, have some rope…please?"

Crane raises his eyebrows, trying to figure out my plan, but then nods towards a corner of the room, where the survival tools are laid out. I grab the rope which looks to be made of the sturdiest fibres, and tie it around my waist, stuffing the rest into my pocket.

Trying to keep my head up, I make my way to the base of the tree. I study it for a moment, devising a path of branches in my head. Now I'm ready, and get my foot up on the first hold. Pulling myself up, I keep looking to the top of the tree, never looking down. That's the biggest mistake you can make.

As I get used to the smoothness of the metal - you'd think they'd have been able to synthesise a bark-like material out of something - my feet and hands get nimbler, quicker, and suddenly I'm quite enjoying myself.

I don't want to get too high, though, in case the branches get too thin and can't support my body weight. I know I'm not exactly the heaviest guy in these Games, but I still need to watch it.

Finally I settle on a medium-sized branch close to the top. I take in the height only when I've tied the other end of the rope around the circumference of the branch. I've covered enough distance to impress them, because I catch some of the sponsors whispering to each other, pointing and making "ooh" sounds.

Very, very carefully, I slide my back up the tree into a standing position, and turn myself around. I tug on the rope to check it's tight enough, and then I jump.

I hear more than one high-pitched gasp, but that stops as soon as I touch my feet to the trunk of the tree. I'm making it clear that I haven't slipped, but am smoothly abseiling my way back to the floor.

The rope is just long enough - and I mean _just_. I have to stand on tiptoes while I untie it from my waist, and in so doing wonder how I'm supposed to get the rest of it down from the branch if I'm the only person on the floor…oh well, I can't worry about that now. I should get out while I can.

I take a hasty bow, and practically power-walk to the exit.

_Oh yeah._

**Dan**

There are only ten of us left by the time Logan stops wrestling with his eyes and goes into the training centre. I can't help but feel antsy. It's not so much nerves at this point - I just want to get this over with.

Thorn's sitting on the other end of my bench, and she's been doing this weird thing with her palms, just rubbing them together, for a full ten minutes now. Poor girl. She must have some kind of anxiety disorder or something.

The girl from my district goes, and I give her a thumbs-up, even though my hopes for her are low. The number of kids in these Games, the ones who I know from past years have little chance of making it, really depresses me. They're barely starting out in life…but then, in the non-Career districts, life doesn't tend to offer you much anyway. But still.

I almost jump when my name is announced, and it occurs to me that I still have _absolutely no idea_ what I'm going to show these people. Suddenly my shirt feels very damp.

I gulp when I walk in. My mind searches frantically for something, but it's not until I've said "Daniel Whitebone" that a rare flash of brilliance hits me.

"Excuse me, am I allowed to access the speakers in here?"

Seneca Crane gives me a suspicious look.

"Yes… why do you ask?"

"Oh I was just wondering if this centre had Setting 9 on its system."

"You mean a bleep test?"

"That's the one."

Crane looks behind at the sponsors, as if to say, _this should be interesting_. Then he reaches into the pocket of his velvet dinner-jacket, withdrawing a remote. He throws it down to me, and when I catch it, I notice it's reassuring similar to the one my PE teacher used at school when I was younger. Now I'm Dan: the man with a plan.

"Thank you," I say, pressing several buttons before I find what I want. Then I leave the remote on the floor, and jog over to the wall.

"Commencing Bleep Test," it says loudly. "3…2…1…Level 1. BLEEP."

I jog to the other wall, and wait for the next "BLEEP'. This carries on until Level 2, when I get bored and up it to Level 8. Now it's getting good. I can sprint. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Then Level 9. Back. Forth. Back. Forth. There are thirteen levels, and by Twelve I'm getting breathless, but I've gotta keep moving.

It gets to the point where I'm skidding on the floor to stop myself from smacking into the walls.

"Level Thirteen. BLEEP. BLEEP. BLEEP."

-

"That is the end of the test. Congratulations."

I do slam into the wall this time, sinking to my knees as I try not to pass out. To my surprise, however, there's a modest round of applause from the audience. I wipe sweat from eyes, slick back my hair, and move towards the remote. I hand it back to Crane over the bar. Impressed though his eyes may look, he takes care to grab a tissue and deliberately wipe my District Eight sweat off it.

"Thank you, that will be all."

I nod, and stumble out of the exit, feeling the endorphins kick in. I throw my arms above my head, silently cheering myself.

**Thorn**

Eighteen down, six to go. I feel my palms getting painfully hot, so I sit on them. I've always been chastised for my fidgeting, but it's the only way I can stop myself from having an anxiety attack.

The boy from District Nine walks off, and I feel very, very sick. How can everyone else be so damn calm? I mean, Thresh is just sitting opposite me, totally cool, almost _indifferent_. And little Rue is just patiently waiting, probably entertaining herself with a daydream.

Kiko has one knee up on the bench, his bad leg, and for the past thirty minutes he's just been sitting like that, holding it. Peeta, from District Twelve, looks somewhere between calm and panicked. Every so often he swallows loudly.

I actually forget Katniss is next to me until she puts a hand on my back. For the first time this afternoon, I stop moving. I must look like a deer in the headlights, as the old saying goes, because she smiles kindly and pats me, once, twice, three times.

"Hey, relax. What's the worst that could happen in there?"

My eyes shift, and I notice that the other tributes are listening in, because there's nothing else going on.

"I don't really like to consider it."

"Well, no. But if you can figure out what the worst would be, then you'll at least be able to ready yourself, and if the worst doesn't happen, then so much the better."

I pause to reflect on this. I feel like something lifts from my shoulders.

"That makes sense. Thanks Kat -"

"Thorn West."

"Oh no…I can't do this." I feel my knees going weak, and suddenly standing feels like the bigger challenge more than anything else. Thankfully, Katniss acts as a crutch under my arm, and she steadies me until I'm on my feet.

"Yes, you can. Look at me."

I do. She winks.

"Knock 'em dead."

I can't help but smile. I clench my jaw and nod, trying to be enthusiastic.

"Good luck," says Peeta as I move to the doors. I turn and see Rue smiling at me as well. Kiko crosses his fingers on both hands for me. Even Thresh nods at me. This is good. This is what I need. I take a deep breath and walk in, trying to recreate the confidence I emulated before the chariot procession.

There they all are, looking somewhat sluggish. Uh oh. I'm going to have to try really hard to make them remember me.

"Thorn West," I say clearly, even though my lungs are already emptying.

I try and focus purely on what I'm doing right now: walking; selecting the nearest training dummy; dragging it into the centre of the floor; stretching my arms; jumping on the spot; taking up position. D-e-e-p-b-r-e-a-t-h.

I punch the dummy in the face, but a little too softly. It's the nerves. I've got to dispel them, and _now_. I have to visualise this properly, and as I hop from one foot to the other, I come up with the perfect face: Cato's.

Suddenly, I'm ruthless. I punch, one two three times in the gut, the chest and the nose. Kick, first low, then in the face. I drop down and kick the dummy off its stand with a straight leg. I jump back up and hurl myself onto it, forearm on windpipe, socking it in the face repeatedly. Then I get up, bringing the dummy with me, and whip around. As if it's someone attacking me from behind, I grab its arm and yank the body - which must be at least seventy kilos - over my shoulder, watching it hit the floor with a thud.

It's still not enough. I drag the dummy over to the metal tree, roughly pull it back up so that it stands, then run behind the tree.

I've only done this successfully twice, but hey, third time's the charm, right? I tighten my core muscles, grab the tree trunk with both hands, and swing my entire body horizontally in the air until my feet slam satisfyingly into the dummy's chest. As it topples to the ground, clouds of sand actually start flying out from the dents I've made. _Dents_. Wow.

I decide to leave it there and, running on the adrenalin I've just got pumping through my blood, walk boldly back to my place before the sponsors. Seneca Crane looks startled to say the least. Good.

I bow from the waist, and throw open the exit door, feeling pretty damn good about myself.

**Ash**

After taking one of the best showers in my entire life, I slip on a pair of blue sweatpants and a green vest. I stuff my feet into slippers so fluffy they tickle my toes.

Any minute now the broadcast of our training scores is due. I'm nervous, but not anywhere near as much as before the showcase. This is different: whatever happens, it'll be over in less than a minute.

I go out of my room and sit on the T-shaped white suede sofa - the Capitol's interior design is just as crazy as its fashions - next to Dyon, who's thrown on a flannel dressing gown and brown, old-man slippers. Finnick sits with a leg crossed and a glass of something unnaturally pink in his hand. He must be more than used to this routine.

The TV clock strikes 8pm, and on comes Caesar Flickermann's face, full of charisma, but also with a touch of solemnity, to prepare the mood of suspense for the millions of viewers. Okay, maybe I'm not quite as calm as I thought…

"Good evening everybody. I'm Caesar Flickermann, your humble host on tonight's very special show. That's right: it's time to reveal just how talented this year's tributes have proved themselves to be before our esteemed sponsors."

He gets right to it: Marvel and Glimmer get a 9 apiece. Clove and Cato both get _10_, for goodness' sake. They're insane. But then, they are Careers. The District Three scores are more disappointing - a 3 and a 5. Dyon's face is shown, and we all fall especially silent. It's a 6. Not too shabby. Finnick thumps him on the back, apparently satisfied.

And…there's my face! When did they take that picture? My hair looks overly-photogenic, blowing in some romantic breeze. I look serious, but then so does everybody.

"Ashes Maxim…9."

I scream - that's right, _scream_ - out loud before bringing my hands to my face. I'm so shocked…I mean, yeah, gymnastics is impressive, but in terms of usefulness in the arena, it's actually pretty limited. Guess the sponsors thought otherwise.

"Atta girl, Ash!" Finnick says, shaking me by the shoulders. I can only giggle. Dyon, sweet guy he is, shakes my hand and gives genuine congratulations. As we sit back to watch the rest of the scores, I have a secret moment of schadenfreude: Knowing I got the same score as them, Glimmer and Marvel must be _furious_.

**Flint**

I raise my eyebrows high. _Go Ash_… Crane must have enjoyed her stunts even more the second time.

I tuck my legs under myself on our red sofa, and bite a little on my knuckle. It's not long at all now before my score. Given I screwed up halfway through my showcase, I honestly have no idea what I'll be assigned. Foxy gets a 5, which is…meh, and her partner gets a 4. Ooh, sucks to be him. But that's not a thought I relish. I just feel sorry for him. Let's face it, if you don't get anything higher than a 7, you will be targeted as a weakling. Fact.

Okay, now I really wish I hadn't said that: Mailo got a 5. I cast him as sympathetic a look as I can muster, but all he does is shrug his shoulders and try to look optimistic.

Here's my face. Jeez, I look like I want everyone to stay at least ten feet away from me.

"Flint Verdasa…8."

"Yes!" I gasp, throwing my fists in the air. My prep team give a little cheer, and Titus rubs my shoulders encouragingly.

"That's good, that's good. But don't get complacent now."

I roll my eyes when he's not looking. I don't care - an eight is more than decent, and now I can breathe easy.

Well, until the Games start at least.

**Logan**

Okay, mental note: Ashes and Flint will either make excellent allies, or they will kill me swiftly and efficiently. I'm more surprised by Flint's score. After all, I don't remember her doing anything particularly memorable during training…she did seem to like running around the room a lot, but how can you make a showcase out of that?

My thoughts on Flint are interrupted, however, by the sight of my own photo. Huh…without glasses I don't actually look too strange. You might even say I look…handsome. How about that. I can't help but dig my nails into the edge of the sofa.

"Thomas Logan…8."

Before I've even had a chance to react, Johanna is suffocating me with a gleeful headlock.

"That's our man! What'd I tell ya? _Logan_ - so much better than Tom."

Oh yeah, _that's_ the reason I got an 8. Not because I abseiled down a tree, or anything like that. Honestly…

Jackal stares wide-eyed at the screen. She gets a 4. The mood is brought down considerably.

Johanna, for once having nothing to say on the matter, is no help, so I get up and sit next to my partner tribute. She has a little cry on my shoulder, for which I really can't blame her.

"Logan…I'm gonna die, aren't I?"

_What am I supposed to say to that?_

"Oh…don't worry, Jackal," I improvise. "I'll be there to watch your back."

**Dan**

If I moved an inch further forward, I'd fall off this sofa. But I feel the need to sit as close to the screen as possible.

I'm obviously not pleased about the Careers. But I'm hardly surprised. What was more shocking, on the other hand, was the sight of a 9, 8 and 8 for Ashes, Flint and Logan, respectively. I knew they weren't totally talentless, but man…I need to rethink my alliance strategies, because there's no way me running back and forth for fifteen minutes is going to get -

"Daniel Whitebone…9."

_HUH?_

"What just happened?" I say, not recognising my own voice, I'm so stunned.

"What happened? You got a freaking _9_, that's what happened!" Woof says, slamming me on the back in congratulations so hard that I fall off the sofa for real.

I'm battling a spluttering cough when my partner's score comes up…6. That's…not fantastic. But it's better than some of the ones we've seen so far. I look her way and smile.

A 9…Ashes, Marvel, Glimmer and I are all on the same level. Awesome.

**Thorn**

I _hate_ having to wait so long for everything. It's like they want to make us suffer even more.

I have to keep it to myself, but inside I grin as Ash, Flint, Logan and Dan get high scores. That's Career-worthy. As for me…well, I just couldn't say. Let's be realistic, the sponsors will have watched my Reaping, including the moment I fainted on stage. They must have taken that into account. I guess we'll find out.

My nerves are strangely contained this evening. I think the showcase let me get a lot of stuff out of my system, and taking a long, hot bath afterwards, with lots of lavender sprinkled all over the water, probably helped too. I sit still, which is a nice change of state from how I normally am.

The scores for District 9 are unremarkable: 4 and 6. I hope that's not going to be me.

Kiko's up next. He's next to me on the sofa and, perhaps without thinking, takes my hand, looking very worried.

3. Oh no. Oh _no. Poor Kiko_. I turn to him and rub my hand up and down his back, while he tries not to cry. We all knew that, with his injury, he was never going to score highly, but a 3? It seems excessively harsh.

"It'll be alright, Kiko," I say, even though it's probably not helping.

Oh no…there I am.

By some miracle, the photo they're using shows me at my most serene. I'm smiling ever so slightly, so I don't look utterly wracked with fear. My hair is down, that's a nice touch.

"Thorn West…10."

I can't speak. The most I can do is make a squeaking sound as my hands fly to my face, and I curl into a ball on the sofa. But it's not fear this time. It's raw, wonderful ecstasy. I'm sobbing, too overcome with shock to hear the scores for Thresh and Rue.

I force myself to sit up and control my breathing. It's insensitive of me to make such a fool of myself when Kiko just got such a low score and…why does he look so happy?

He throws his arms around me, as does our mentor and our entire prep team.

"Can't…breathe…GUYS!" I yell, muffled, until they let me have some space.

"Sorry, Thorn," says Kiko, a big grin on his face. "But come on, this is amazing! You just got the same scores as Cato and Clove, for crying out loud!"

Sweet strawberries and cream…I'm on the same platform as District Two!

"What the hell did you do in that training centre?" one of the stylists asks me, about three inches from my face.

"Oh, just…nothing special. I, uh, I practiced my martial arts on one of the training dummies…made some dents, you know."

"Well, whatever you did, make sure you do it again in the arena," my mentor says, eyes gleaming. "Oh boy, this'll be great. A real talking point for your interview tomorrow."

…Interview? Oh crud.


	8. The Interviews

**Chapter Eight**

**The Interviews**

**Author's Note****: So, yeah, last night's chapter was LONG. I doubt if this one'll end up being quite so epic, but if it does, then yay! **

**My thanks goes again to ArcticMist and CrazyCheeseDude for their reviews, as well as Dare-deviless for favouriting this story. You all rock. **

**Legal****: Go on then, sue me. I dare you. I've got a friend doing law at Oxford if needs be…**

**Ash**

Dressing for the interviews is a pretty passive process: all I have to do is stand in the middle of a room and move my arms up and down, step into things etc. and let the prep team brush make-up onto my face.

I take this opportunity to reflect on the events of last night: besides the fact that I got a 9, which I'm still crazy-happy about, Thorn got a fricking 10! Just goes to show that you should never underestimate anyone, even if they are a bundle of nerves. I guess she's a bundle of dangerous, wired nerves.

The little girl, Rue, from Eleven, got a 7, which is a lot more impressive than other tributes her age, and older. Maybe it's because she can do stuff like steal Cato's knife without him noticing…that was hilariously scary.

And then there was Katniss. I think a silence must have descended on all twelve floors when Caesar Flickermann said the number "11". Unbelievable. Still, rather her than the Careers _any day_. And her partner didn't do badly at all himself.

"Voilá!" my stylist Braindailyalah (I never say her name aloud) announces with a flourish. Like parting seas my prep team step aside so I can see myself in the mirror.

I look…amazing, if I do say so myself. Finally I've been dressed in something that isn't blue. It's a jewel-encrusted bodice, white and sparkly, with a long white skirt that flows from the back of my hips. Tall, clean white stilettos are strapped to my feet, and my only other piece of jewelry is a large diamond bracelet on my left wrist.

I don't even want to think about how much this ensemble cost. But I love it.

"I love it."

"Honey, of course you love it," Braindailyalah says, smiling at my reflection. "Only the best for District Four."

Hmm…I wonder if all the stylists say that to their districts.

I have to walk down to the space backstage v-e-r-y slowly, terrified that at any moment I'll trip in these heels and break my neck. Although at least then I wouldn't have to worry about anyone killing me in the arena: I'd have made a DIY job of it.

I go so slowly that by the time I get backstage, all the tributes save for Logan and Katniss are already lined up and waiting. Oh goody - more awkward silences.

A member of the camera crew takes my hand and leads me towards the front of the queue, getting the boy from District Three and Dyon to make room for me. The Careers grumble at having to shuffle forward.

"Sorry I'm late," I whisper to Dyon over my shoulder. When I get no response I turn around and just see him…staring.

"What is it?"

"Oh, nothing, it's just…you look, um…hot."

His expression says he'd like the ground to swallow him up, so I just smile.

"Thank you, Dyon. That's a nice thing to hear."

A little red "LIVE" light starts flashing, and we all straighten up, tense.

Glimmer steps up to just behind the magnificent red curtain, looking a bit - no, what am I saying, _super_ - ridiculous in this poofy chiffon dress that makes her look like a walking, giggling dandelion head. But she doesn't seem to mind.

We watch everything play out from a screen next to the stage entrance, and when the boy from District Three goes up, I start thinking about the number of people…oh boy…I just hope the lights will be blinding enough that I won't be able to see them.

Now me. I make my aching feet move forward, incentivizing myself by picturing the chair I'll be able to sit on.

My knees knock together as Caesar introduces me. Now I wish this outfit had a front skirt to go with the back.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the sparky Ashes Maxim!"

Okay, work what you got. Work it, work it - who is this fashionista in my head all of a sudden…?

As long as I keep eye contact with Caesar, I won't have to look at the audience, even though I can feel all their eyes on me, hear their applause.

We shake hands and sit. I have to tuck my skirt underneath as I go.

"So, Ashes - it is Ashes, am I right?"

"Um, actually all my friends call me Ash."

"Oh, I see. Well, I'm flattered that you consider me a friend."

Mutual smiles. All for the camera.

"Okay then, Ash, let's see if we can clarify something: a little birdy told me that on the very first day of training, you executed jaw-dropping series of gymnastics. Is that true?"

"It is indeed."

The audience gasps and "ooh"s. Keep cool, Ash.

"Well, that is just extraordinary. It's times like this I just _wish _we were allowed to film inside the training centre. I would have loved to have seen it."

"Who knows, maybe I'll put on a little show in the arena," I say coyly. Whatever part of my brain is coming up with these remarks, I'm now indebted to it.

"Oh, wouldn't that be something, folks?"

A cheer answers him.

"Now, to move onto a different topic - how are you finding the competition? Anyone strike you as the one to watch out for?"

_Uh oh. _Whichever tribute I mention will be on my tail so fast in the arena… what do I say?

"Uh, Caesar…"

"Yes?"

"Well, if we're being perfectly honest…" I turn to one of the cameras for the first time. "The tribute to watch out for…is me."

I raise my eyebrows playfully, letting a smile pull on my lips. Another "ooh" from the audience, louder this time. Caesar's loving this; he claps his hands and leans back in his chair, laughing heartily.

"Wow, the other tributes better watch out, then! I'm afraid that's all we've got time for, but it's been an absolute delight, Ash."

We stand and shake hands again. He turns me out to the audience, and I wave chirpily.

"Ladies and gentlemen, Ash Maxim!"

I get a healthy dose of sending-off applause, and even a couple of wolf-whistles from the front row. I just wink and smile, strutting off the stage.

The fakeness falls from my face the minute I'm off camera. I'm so relieved that's over.

**Flint**

What the hell kind of game is Ash playing? Yesterday at lunch she seemed so sweet and modest, but now… well, I guess everyone's gotta get together an act of some kind. I just didn't expect her to come off as cocky. No, wait, that's harsh. The audience seems to like her, in any case. That's going to be my biggest problem. I can't do what Ash just did - make seamless, perky small-talk, delivering answers like it's all scripted. That would certainly be easier.

When her partner takes his turn, I glance behind me, wondering if Logan's showed up yet.

In fact, he's walking through the door right now.

Whoa. He cleaned up good. His auburn hair's slicked back, and there's something about his contacts that makes them look brighter and bluer. His black shoes are polished to the point of gleaming, and his suit is a starched, crisp white, offset by a black shirt with the top two buttons undone.

I give him a definite nod of approval, which he smiles graciously at. I'm liking him a little more every day.

The closer to my turn it gets, the more focused I become. I can only hope he asks me about training, or my strategy, or what I like most about the Capitol. If he asks about my family, I'm screwed, because I know even I won't be able to hold back the tears.

Here I go: I will my jade coloured heels not to slip between the stairs. I make it to the curtain uninjured, thank goodness, and smooth down my light, flowing emerald-green dress.

"And now we reach the halfway point in our exciting series of interviews. Ladies and Gentlemen, may I introduce to you Ms. Flint Verdasa!"

I walk out, and have a déjà vu sensation: it's like all the people who showed up to the chariot procession have been crammed into this studio, however big it is. They seem to go on forever…

I sit down, think about crossing my legs, and then decide against it.

"So, Flint, a warm welcome to the Capitol."

"Thank you."

"What's your favourite thing about this city, would you say?"

"Oh, I don't know, Caesar," I say, trying to fake energy. "I guess I'd have to say…how shiny everything is."

_Wow, could I sound any more like Glimmer?_

"Shiny? That's an interesting way of looking at it, I must say. What about the clothes? D'ya like the fashion here? I see it certainly suits you."

"Uh, thanks…yeah, I do love the clothes. My stylist and prep team are…a gift from the skies!"

"What a nice thing for them to hear. Now, Flint, I'd like to ask you: how much will winning these Games mean to you?"

I speak before I think.

"It would mean everything to me, because then I can go home to my family."

_No no no no _I'm such an idiot. Now he's gonna -

"Tell us about your family, Flint."

Fabulous. I'm toast.

"What can I say?" I look to the cameras. "I love them to pieces. My mom, Dad, and my little brother."

And there's the inevitable "aww" from the audience. Don't take pleasure in the pain of my private life, please.

"How old is he?"

"Three. I don't think he has any idea where I've gone."

A sudden hush. I can't help but carry on.

"I mean, how can any of us tell him what's going on? He's too young to understand. Good luck to my parents when they have to explain why I'm never coming home…"

I've sunk myself into an emotional pit. I bite my lip, fighting back furiously my tears. Caesar looks at me with a kind, but pitying, smile.

"I am very sorry to hear that, Flint. But just remember, with an 8 from your showcase, you stand a darn good chance of survival out there. So when you're in there, just think of your brother and how you're going to win for him. Are you going to do that?"

I nod silently. With that, the interview ends. As I stand up, just as I think I've made it, a tear spills down my cheek. I've really done it now: I look weak.

Still, the audience cheers me all the way off the stage. I shudder and hug my arms to my body.

**Logan**

That's a side of Flint I never thought I'd see in these Games. She looks vulnerable, but somehow stronger for it; she's got something to fight for, which gives her an edge.

I avoid her gaze as she sweeps past once her interview's over. She avoids mine.

Jackal goes up for her interview, dressed in a simple but sweet navy frock. She looks nervous, and so am I. Thank goodness I told my prep team about the sweat in my contacts from yesterday - today they've bathed the lenses in a special solution which will stop that from happening. I also look wide awake, which is always an advantage.

Jackal's is over shortly, and I check my cufflinks one more time on my way up the stairs - they're in the shape of the Capitol's symbol, obviously.

"And now, the man who virtually overnight has gone from a shrinking violet with glasses to a suave, stylish gentleman, may I present to you, Mr. Thomas Logan!"

Out I go, to a wave of cheers and whistles. I flash a smile and give Caesar's hand a firm shake before we get settled in our chairs.

"So Tom, or should I say, Logan, how does it feel to have the entire country know your name?"

_Er…_

"Gee, Caesar, I don't know if words'll be enough to describe it. I'm flattered, overwhelmed, but above all, proud to represent District Seven."

"Now that's the Hunger Game spirit I like to see! I haven't been to Seven for a very long time indeed. What's it like these days?"

"Oh, you know, business as usual: trees, trees and more trees. It's a good thing I love trees, though."

That cannot believe how many times I just said the word "tree" in one sentence. Luckily, Caesar just chuckles.

"Good stuff. So, Logan, if you don't mind my asking, do you have a girlfriend back home who you're going to win this for?"

"I'm afraid not, Caesar - girls back home don't tend to commit to a guy who spends all his days up a tree."

_Stop. Saying. "Tree"._

"I am, however, putting in a hundred percent for my dad." For some reason, I feel like now is a good time to turn to the camera and wave, like a little kid. "Hey Dad."

"Oh, isn't that nice? Sounds like you two are close."

"Well, we've had to be since my mom died two years back."

Why did I just say that? The whole of Panem didn't need to know that private, painful piece of knowledge. Caesar reaches over and pats my shoulder.

"My sincerest condolences, Tom. And on that note, I wish you all the best for tomorrow and the days to come."

"Thank you very much."

"Tom Logan, everyone."

I smile again, but not as gleefully this time. I know myself too well; tonight I'm going to be in bed thinking about how much I miss her.

**Dan**

Man, just when I think I've got some of these tributes sussed, these interviews happen and suddenly Caesar's leading them to drop bombshells left, right and centre. Poor Flint. Poor Logan.

Me, I don't have any sob stories to tell. Tonight has really made me thankful for that; I have two parents who I get along with pretty well, I'm healthy, I have friends, and while fixing the sewing machines in the factories isn't exactly what I'd call fun, it's safe enough, and it pays well.

Compared to a lot of people tonight, I'm gonna be plain bland.

My partner comes down the stairs, meaning it's time for my five minutes of fame. Let's get this show on the road…

"Now ladies, you'd better steady yourselves, because it's now time to welcome to the stage the man of silver, Mr. Daniel Whitebone!"

I walk onstage to a deafening pitch of screams for my name. I can only glimpse the front row, but an alarming number of middle-aged women are on their feet, waving their arms at me and sending me smouldering looks. Yikes, I'm cougar prey…

I concentrate on Caesar as he calms down the audience so he can kick off the conversation. That man certainly knows how to pull off blue hair.

"Well, well, well, Dan, there's no denying you've collected a considerable fanbase."

"What can I say, Caesar? I just…give the people what they want."

_Oh jeez, _I sound so full of it.

"That you do. I mean, I almost requested my sunglasses when you came out on that chariot. Truly, truly spectacular."

"Thanks very much."

"You're welcome. Now, onto your training score: a 9. For a district so…far away from the Capitol, this is very impressive. What's your secret?"

"My secret? Uh…I don't think I have one, to be honest."

"Look at that, folks, not only is he a hunk, he's a modest hunk."

More shrieks of approval sound off from female audience members.

"But seriously, Dan, a tribute doesn't just walk into the training centre and score a 9 without doing something special. We're dying to know."

"I'd love to tell you, Caesar, but, uh, I'm sure a lot of my competition are sitting up in their rooms in their pyjamas playing back all of these interviews, and I'd rather not give them the satisfaction of hearing about my sprinting."

A pause, and then laughter ripples across the studio as the audience takes in my undoubtedly horrified expression. Caesar just gives me a look that says, _you walked right into that one, pal_.

"Well, at least I got him to answer the question!" he says to the audience, before standing up, indicating I should do the same. "Dan, thank you very much for your time. I wish you the best of luck out there. Run 'em into the ground!"

He's a host. Of course he's gonna throw in a pun. I just smile in as painless a way as possible and shake his hand good-naturedly.

"Daniel Whitebone, ladies and gentlemen!"

When I finally get off the stage, I wince inwardly as I think about how manically the Careers must be grinning up in their suites right now.

**Thorn**

Oh, dear. Dan set up his own trap just there.

I hope I don't do anything stupid like that. But at least he's got tons of fans in the audience. What are they going to make of me?

I turn my head to sort out a crick in my neck, and when I do, I notice Katniss' dress for the first time. She's a knock-out, wearing a floor-length red gown the same colour as the flames that shot out from her outfit during the procession. That feels like years ago, but it's only been a few days.

"You look beautiful, Katniss," I say down the line.

"Thank you," she replies, looking like she's not used to being complimented. "How are you feeling?"

"Been better. But I'm sticking to what you said. I've gotta keep a level head."

"Good. I'm sure you'll be fine up there."

I'd find this more reassuring were her tone not so nervous.

The boy from Nine comes back down the stairs, and my heart starts beating so hard I can feel it in my throat. I flex my fingers, unable to rub my palms together because I'm wearing a pearl ring the size of a small planet on my right finger. It matches the simple cream dress Giuliano put me in. It ends mid-thigh, and is accompanied by half-sleeves running down the backs of my arms, connected to my wrists. My eyes are dark but my lips are light and glossy. I guess I've been given the "innocent but mysterious" look.

I take several uncertain steps forward until I'm on the stairs. I clutch the banisters for support, feeling my breathing deepen.

This has gotta be the worst moment of the process, right? Waiting behind the curtain as I hear Caesar introducing me, setting up an image in the audience's minds for them to impose on me.

"And now, let me bring to the stage the girl who surprised everyone with a score of 10, Ms. Thorn West!"

I step into the light, just focusing on where I need to get to: the chair. Okay. I'm there. This is good. Now shake Caesar's hand. Done. Right.

I make my hands be as still as possible, clasped over my knees.

"Good evening, Thorn. How are you?"

Um…petrified? Paralysed? Queasy?

"Oh, a little nervous, but then who isn't, right?"

"I know what you mean. But while we're on the subject, I simply must take you back to your Reaping. I think that's the first time in…ooh, five years, that a tribute has fainted onstage upon being chosen. What on earth caused that shocking fall?"

"I-if we're being perfectly honest, Caesar, it - it was my nerves. I guess it was all just a bit too much for me."

Cato must be loving this. Easy prey.

"Of course, that's quite understandable. And yet, if we fast forward to the days of training you've just had, something tells me you're made of stronger stuff than that."

"W-what makes you say that?"

"Well, for one thing, you received a 10 for your showcase. I won't ask you to tell us what you did to get that, because I'd rather wait for the surprise, am I right, folks?"

The audience makes their agreement known from behind the cameras.

"And another thing, if you don't mind me making this public -"

Like I have a choice…

"Apparently during training there was something of a…showdown between you and Cato from District 2. Would you care to enlighten us?"

My ribcage is on the verge of shattering; how am I supposed to handle this without 1) making myself look crazy and 2) giving Cato a reason to exact revenge on me in the arena?

"Oh, well…I don't think it was as bad as people have probably made it out to be. There was just...some tension, a f-few nasty words being thrown around between Cato and another tribute and I…I just, um…I felt like I had to step in and end it."

"I see. Well, from the sounds of it, you're a regular hero."

"Oh, I'm really not…"

"Don't worry, Thorn, you don't have to be so humble. If I could give my two cents' worth here, I'd say you're a girl who could do with a dash more confidence. After all, you're young, gorgeous, and you've obviously impressed the gamemakers and sponsors." He turns to the audience. "Who thinks this girl's got a good chance of survival?"

To my surprise, a very loud cheer ricochets off the walls of the studio. I'm touched, but also deeply saddened. They have no idea. No idea what I'm going through. No idea that I have no chance of survival.

Caesar suddenly touches my hand, looking concerned.

"My goodness, Thorn, why are you crying?"

I'm crying…? I My fingers come away from my face stained with eyeliner.

"Yeah, I- I'm just…I just…" I take a breath. "I can't lie, Caesar: I'm scared. I am so scared because there is no doubt in my mind that I won't come out of these Games alive, no matter what my score says."

There's a deafening silence. For once, our host looks lost for words.

"Oh my…Thorn, I get the feeling you know something the rest of us don't."

My eyes dart to the cameras. I see myself looking right at my mom and my sister back home. They know.

"It's alright, Caesar," I say with unusual evenness. "It's something I've had to come to terms with, and although day by day it doesn't get any easier, I will tell you this…" I keep staring into the camera, but this time I picture the faces of the Careers, of all the tributes who think I'm pathetic and nothing else. "… I may not be the Victor this year, but I'm damn sure going to go down fighting by the end."

Another silence. Stunned. I know I am at myself.

"Well, I don't think I have anything more to say here. Thorn, thank you very much for being here tonight. I'm rooting for you all the way."

"Thank you."

"Ladies and gentleman, Thorn West!"

People get out of their seats to applaud me. I walk to the curtain, and then once I'm past it, I stagger to the top of the stairs. I make it down to the bottom and rest against the wall, head in my hands, not caring that the other tributes can see me, trying to make sense of whatever just happened up there.

That interview either made or broke me.

…**Okay so maybe I was wrong about the whole this-chapter's-not-going-to-be-very-long thing. Oh well, this is what Easter holidays are for, right?**

**Now, I know you're about to click off, but you see the little "Review" button? Yes, that one just there. Please press it so that I have something to look forward to when I get out of bed in the morning! Thanks :^)**


	9. Countdown

**Chapter Nine**

**Countdown**

**Author's Note****: Thank you to jrush12, blanks-inmyhead, Hungergames1234 and IlLuSiOnRuSsIaN for your support! And to everyone who's also keeping up with this story, again, please review. I might just read your stories and review those, and then everyone can be happy :^)**

**Legalities****: Meep.**

**Ash**

I don't sleep well at all. There's something inside me that's too terrified to let the rest of me be calm and get some much-needed rest, so by 2am I give up and stare at the ceiling. It's not so bad, really: I use the little remote on my bedside table to change the images you can project onto it, until I settle on the starry night sky, indigo and silver, twinkling radiantly.

I descend into a kind of trance, my mind empty. Maybe, just maybe, this is what death is like.

The only thing that breaks my meditation is the clock on my right-hand side. A short series of urgent beeps tells me it's already 6am. I have to get up. Suddenly all the hours of sleep I didn't get come crashing down onto my head, and I can feel the dark circles staining my eyes, my brain cloudy with exhaustion.

This is bad. Going into the arena is awful enough, but if your reaction-time is slowed, it's a walk to your execution platform. Finnick sticks his head round the door without knocking.

"Ten minutes before breakfast. Then we've got to get down there straight away."

"M'kay," I murmur, waving him away. I sit on the side of the bed and will myself to be more alert. A splash of cold water on my face, combined with some zingy lemon scrub for my pores and a clean, brand new arena outfit is enough to get me out of my catatonic state.

I can only nod to Dyon, trying to make it look like I'm getting into the zone. I knock back a large mug of coffee, sputtering steam from my mouth because it's so hot. My eyes blink themselves into "wired" mode: this will have to do.

As we leave, I glance back at the coffee pot longingly, wishing I could sneak in an entire Thermos full of the stuff into the Games.

**Flint**

I didn't get as much shut-eye as I'd have liked last night, but it's enough to keep me running on a mixture of anxiety and toast. In my head, I say goodbye to our decadent Capitol suite - the last place of refuge and comfort most of us will see.

Mailo doesn't look up from the floor the whole elevator ride down. Like me, he's trying to contain his emotions, sit on them in the hope they might eventually go away.

The elevator stops on the second floor, and opens up to reveal…oh _great_. Cato and Clove, plus Enobaria, their gold-fanged, unhinged mentor. Just what I need on this of all mornings.

There's an uncomfortable pause as Titus keeps his finger on the "doors open" button. The space is just about big enough to fit all of us, but I really, really don't want -

Nope, they're stepping in. Enobaria sidles up to Titus, making flirty eyes at him. Urgh, rein it in, please.

Reluctantly, Clove ends up standing on my left, with Cato against the wall on my right. His cologne is so overwhelming I actually end up choking and coughing. He finds this hilarious.

"Oh, sorry Six, I hope you don't start crying again."

I breathe through my mouth, and stare straight ahead. Only three more floors until we're at ground floor level. I don't retaliate.

"What's the matter, Six?" Clove whispers too close to my ear for my liking. "Are you _scared_?"

Ground floor. The doors open. I calmly turn my head to my left and, without missing a beat, respond:

"Sorry to disappoint, but no. I just don't care enough about your existence to really acknowledge it."

And out I walk. It's nice to know that even the worst day can have its bright moments.

**Logan**

Jackal and I get pulled into a hug from Johanna before we're due to board the hovercraft to the arena, but it's emotionless. Energetic she is, but when it comes to sentimentality, our mentor doesn't seem to know the meaning of the word.

"Remember: get whatever your hands find first, and then get the hell out of there."

"Thanks Johanna," I say. "For everything."

"Save it for the Victory Tour, Logan."

I know she's just humouring me, but I'm perfectly okay with that.

Without another word, she gives us a firm push off towards the stepladder. I let Jackal go first, and as she climbs, I steal one last look at the Capitol, with its gleaming, stainless towers and bustling streets. I try to visualize District Seven beyond the city, and I say goodbye to that too.

My turn to ascend; my black boots clank on the steel steps. When I reach the top, I find something very different to my expectations. For some reason, I'd pictured the inside of this hovercraft with rows of seats for us, one behind the other. Instead, there are two long rows, both facing each other. It's the wait for the showcases all over again.

The order is different, though: instead of sitting in District order, it's a split between the sexes. I'm directed to an empty seat between the district Six boy, Mailo, and Chip, from Three. I mechanically strap myself in tight, and watch the rest of the tributes board.

Directly opposite me, with only five feet separating us, sit Ash and Jackal.

Jackal sends me a small, quick smile, but Ash just slumps back in her seat, looking totally drained. Guess she couldn't sleep. It took me a good few hours of tossing and turning in frustration last night before I finally dozed off, my head where my feet should have been.

When Katniss and Peeta have climbed up, the hatch closes and I feel the body of the hovercraft beginning to come to life.

**Dan**

I've never been in a hovercraft before. At least that's another thing I can tick off my "things to do before I die" list.

Although it's a fairly smooth ride, the interior is darker than I imagined. Maybe they're trying to add an extra level of intimidation to this nerve-wracking process before the Games even begin.

A woman starts coming round with a sinister looking instrument in her hand. Tribute by tribute, she moves down our row of seats, taking each guy's arm and, to my unpleasant surprise, sticking a needle into it. I realise what she's doing: we're being implanted with tracking devices, so the gamemakers can know where we are at all times. Wouldn't be surprised if they also get to measure our heart rates and body temperatures as well. Y'know, to make sure we're all perfectly healthy before we die.

Against my will, I'm sitting next to Marvel, who turns very green as he gets jabbed. I can't stop myself from snickering as I obediently turn my own arm over and endure stoically the brief stab of pain that shoots through my skin; when you spend all day fixing sewing machines, needles quickly stop fazing you.

Peeta is on my left, and even when the needle gets to him, he doesn't steer his gaze away from Katniss, who's sitting at the end of the opposite row. If their whole "star-crossed lovers" angle isn't genuine, then he's a fantastic actor.

**Thorn**

My eyes widen at the sight of the needle approaching my seat. I know the fear is worse than the actual jab, but still…

Flint is on my right, and I see only the slightest twitch at the corners of her mouth as her tracking device is implanted. Then, however, she's also handed a cup of water and a small white pill. I look down at the rest of our row - all the other girls have been given the same thing (except, oddly enough, Rue) and they all look just as confused as I feel.

I give a faint yelp of surprise as I'm jabbed, having been distracted by this mysterious little pill, which is now pressed into my own hand, as well as Katniss's, who sits to my left.

"What's this for?" Flint asks the nurse woman the question we're all thinking.

"To interrupt your cycles so that they do not disrupt the Games," she replies bluntly.

I can just tell we've all flushed different shades of red. Katniss darts her eyes to the floor, Flint's eyebrows shoot all the way up her forehead, and I even catch Glimmer shrinking into her seat with embarrassment.

"You had to ask," says Clove through gritted teeth. At least half the boys are trying, in vain, to keep down their guffaws.

"Oh, shut up," spits Clove with an accompanying death-stare. Wasting no more time, she dry swallows her pill, making a point of handing her water back to the nurse.

I, on the other hand, can't dry swallow to save my life, so I take lots of big sips. The other girls follow suit.

That. Is. Disgusting. Some of my water sloshes out of my cup as I inadvertently start having a coughing fit. The nurse takes it off me as I try to get the pill down, but it's so…chalky. _Ew_.

My eyes are watering, and I have to keep both hands over my mouth until I finally swallow the damn thing. I sigh with relief, especially considering I'm not the only one who found it hard: Flint pulls all sorts of faces, the young girl Jackal downs the rest of her water in a single breath, and Glimmer actually starts squirming in her seat, hitting her arm rests with her palms until the pill goes down.

And the guys are just sitting there with smug expressions on their faces. They don't have to deal with this problem, something that I find incredibly irritating.

Then again, thinking about it, I really wouldn't want to deal with the alternative.

**Ash**

What I wouldn't give for something highly flavoured right now; anything to get rid of this sickly taste on my tongue which, combined with my bitter fatigue, only makes me nauseous.

The journey takes approximately thirty minutes, and during that time we all hang on to our arm rests in the shadows, and in silence, save for the ominous thrum of the engines.

I drift in and out of sleep, but when the hovercraft touches down, I don't feel much better for it. If anything, I just feel more disoriented.

We file out down the stepladder district by district, forming a random pattern of empty seats as we leave.

On my way down, I let my tired eyes look up, and they find Katniss's face. Her expression is blank, but at least I get the feeling she's not out to kill me…yet.

I'm flanked by two tall Peacekeepers the minute I touch the floor of the landing pad. They lead me down a long hallway with high ceilings and strip fluorescent lighting, until I'm left in the doorway of a sparsely-decorated room for some final minutes alone with my stylist.

**Flint**

I don't get to give Mailo any kind of good luck, as he's swept away by Peacekeepers just as I reach the bottom of the stepladder. It bothers me more than it should.

As I walk, my arm starts aching big time. Stupid needle. Surely they've got enough cameras in the arena to have a good idea of where we are at all times anyway?

I'm taken to a room, one in a long line of identical others. In it is my stylist, with whom I have a pretty neutral relationship. All they're there to do is reach over to an otherwise empty rail, grab a black, heat-deflecting and waterproof jacket, and put it on me. I could easily do that myself. What I really need, more than anything else at this moment, is support. A kind word. A reassurance, no matter how empty, that everything might just turn out lucky for me.

But I'm only met with a brusque nod, and a gesture for me to step into this glass tube in a corner of the room.

Suddenly everything feels like it's been slowed down and stretched out: my walk into the tube takes an age. I stare into the disinterested, purple-contact-lensed eyes of my stylist for what feels like years.

And then the tube closes shut, and real time catches up with me.

I don't want to die.

**Logan**

The first time I feel trapped, truly trapped, in these Games, comes when I'm sealed inside the tall glass tube. My body starts shivering uncontrollably, and I wait in agony for something to jolt into movement.

All of a sudden, the circular platform I'm standing on begins rising, rising, rising up. And I'm taken with it, until Cassandra and the room she's standing so poised in disappears from my view altogether.

There are so many things I just want to start shouting as cement passes before my eyes. I want to whisper prayers to whatever greater force is up there watching my life unfold at such a rapid speed. I want to tell my dad how much I love him one more time, want to go round to each tribute and tell them I don't want to hurt them, that I'm not a bad guy. Even to the Careers.

And then my eyes are forced to squint in the piercing sunlight.

**Dan**

It takes a few seconds for my eyes to make out anything in this unexpectedly clear daylight. But when I do, two equally strong portions of relief and horror collide within me.

The arena is a massive forest, and in the centre, where I am, is a grassy field.

Except it's not only me: in a huge circle, on identical platforms, are the other twenty-three tributes. I don't think it's hit me until now just how many of us there are. And all of us, bar one, will be dead.

My eyes rest momentarily on this enormous metal sculpture at the edge of the field. The Cornucopia. At its mouth is a mountain of weapons, food, medical supplies…all things we have to be willing to kill for now. Scattered around the sides are smaller things - backpacks, tents, bags of apples, and more.

Whatever happens, I've decided, I can't fall into the trap of trying to get the best stuff. That's just asking to be slaughtered. Other than that, I have no fricking clue what to do.

My feet quake in my boots, and my teeth start chattering. I only hope everyone else is too wrapped up in their own anxieties to notice.

**Thorn**

This is it. We're all here. On the vast screen behind the Cornucopia, a timer starts counting down from sixty.

Fifty-nine…

This is unreal. My pulse is so fast that I'm sure I can't even feel the gaps between the beats anymore.

Fifty-five…

I quickly glance at the tributes on either side of me…_No…_

It couldn't be worse. Thresh is to my right, Cato on my left. Ohjeezohjeezohjeez I don't stand a chance of even making it off the platform. My feet urge to start running now, but if I do, I'll be blown to shreds by the mines that lie buried all around us. I wasn't going to forget that warning from my mentor very easily.

Forty…

I breathe jaggedly, knowing full well how loud it is in the hush of the forest clearing.

Thirty-five…

But I'm past caring.

Thirty-two…

I just want to stay alive. I feel like life is a person whom I'm trying with every ounce of strength to cling onto.

Twenty-nine…

We're in the twenties. I want to leap into the sky and never come back down.

Twenty-six…

Oh man, Mom and Savvy are watching this, aren't they? I want to hug my mom like a little child and bury my head in her shoulder, shutting out the scary adult world.

Twenty…

OH DEAR. OH DEAR. OH NO - It's like I'm back at the Reaping, my entire body protesting at the cards fate has dealt me. I'm no longer just shaking. I'm _convulsing_.

Fourteen…

What am I going to do? I've gotta run, that's all I can do, but for all I know I won't even get that chance.

Eleven…

The final ten seconds have every tribute take up position, ready to jump and strike, scurry away or just stay still, unable to make a decision.

Eight…

People are going to die in eight seconds.

Seven…

This is the bloodbath.

Six…

And people always die in the bloodbath.

Five…

People I've met and liked. Gone.

Four…

I want this torture to end.

Three…

I feel another pair of eyes on me.

Two…

I turn my head.

One…

It's Cato.


	10. The Bloodbath

**Chapter Ten**

**The Bloodbath**

**Author's Note****: Wow. I enjoyed writing Chapter Nine so much that I felt compelled to get working on this one right away! (FYI: I am **_**so**_** tired right now…) Also, thanks to PersonNatalie for reviewing, whom I embarrassingly forgot to mention in my previous chapters. Sorry!**

**Legal****: Don't own Hunger Games yadayadayada…**

**Warning****: This chapter contains scenes of violence. Might well update the rating to a T.**

**Thorn**

I duck before Claudius Templesmith can finish saying "Let the 74th Annual Hunger Games begin!"

Cato crashes into Thresh - they tumble off their platforms and onto the grass, trying to strangle each other to death because they haven't got any weapons yet _thank goodness_.

Then Thresh throws Cato off him, dashing away to grab a machete from the goods among the grass. He's too quick for Cato to chase after now, so he turns his murderous glare back to me.

Oh.

I barely leap off my platform in time before Cato's lunged at me. I roll across the ground before jumping up and running, and I mean _running,_ without looking back. I don't even know where I'm going, who's near me or who else is out to get me. I just run as fast as my legs will go.

After twenty minutes it hits me that I grabbed nothing from the Cornucopia - how could I be so stupid? At least if Cato had killed me, it would have been quick. Now I might well die slowly and painfully from exposure.

Sweat drenches my vest through the waterproof jacket, but I keep going. Branches scratch my face left, right and centre; I keep going. I trip over a rock and go flying, twisting my ankle and grazing my elbows. Get up. Still going.

And I keep going until the screams fade out of earshot.

**Dan**

Mayhem. That's what happens in the space of a second. I leap off my platform so fast that it takes me a second to figure out what to do next.

Something glints in between blades of grass. A metal box attached to a black cylinder. I grab it - no more time to pause because any minute now I'm a dead man.

All around me tributes are running: running and falling, running and fighting, running and dying. The District Ten cripple is fighting Katniss for a backpack when he gets stabbed by Clove. I sprint past them, one of her knives narrowly missing my ear and lodging itself in the backpack Katniss now owns.

District Ten is lying in a growing pool of his own blood.

I can't be that guy. Not today.

I disappear into the woods, my only desire now being obscurity.

Of course, as a sprinter, it's not long before I get breathless. I crash into a tree, my lungs on fire. There is no way I can keep up this pace, so I have to make do with jogging. I zigzag in between trees and boulders in case anyone's following me.

After a while I risk looking back, and come to a halt at last when it's clear that it's just me. Alone, and very much alive.

Still, I slip behind a large log and, trying to ignore the searing pain in my chest, check out exactly what it is I've procured:

The metal box turns out to be a first aid kit, with some bandages, painkillers, tiny scissors, plasters, and what looks like antiseptic balm. Excellent!

But in a way I'm even more pleased with the black, squishy cylinder, which is a sleeping bag. Looks like I'm all set for the basics tonight…except for food. And water.

Damn.

**Logan**

For a moment I really can't afford to have, I stand frozen on my platform and watch the chaos play out.

Slash. The first kill: Mailo from Six.

Stab. There goes District Ten's male.

Crack. Cato breaks District Nine's girl's neck in one deadly move.

That could be me if I don't do something.

MOVE, DAMN IT, MOVE!

So I do, finally. I dodge a spear, and just about manage to deflect a whirling knife by the handle with my sleeve.

I have a path in mind now; an escape route from this madness. And then - is that - yes! I dive down and scoop up a shoulder bag with whatever's inside.

Now I'm going to do what Johanna told me and get the hell out of here.

Just as I make it to the edge of the field, however, a hot, fierce pain strikes out at my left shoulder. I don't feel anything wedged into it, though, so I just use my adrenalin to keep on running.

There does come a point where I can no longer ignore it: I feel something warm and sticky trailing down underneath my layers, and I start feeling dizzy. I stop.

A dark stain is blooming even underneath my black, opaque jacket. That's not a good sign…what do I do now? Where do I go?

The answer presents itself when I tilt my head back: a tree with plenty of knots in the trunk is only a few feet away. I need to get up there before I lose consciousness…

Slinging the bag over my good shoulder, I fumble my way up the tree. Relying on just one arm is extraordinarily difficult: every move I make has to be a short jump upwards, and every time that happens, my shoulder screams with pain.

At last, though, I haul myself onto a steady branch about fifteen feet off the ground. It's not great, but it'll have to do…

The bag is in a bunch at my feet, and my back's against the tree. Very, very carefully, I unzip my jacket and peel it away.

The sight of my injury is enough to make me retch: It's not a very deep cut, but it's hit a layer of muscle, and there…is blood…_everywhere_.

I make a feeble attempt to sponge away the worst of it with my jacket, but every dab is excruciating. My screams are silent.

While my thoughts are still vaguely coherent, I awkwardly lean forward for the bag. It nearly slips off the branch, but I catch it just in time.

My heart lifts when I pull out some thick rope. It takes a long time, but I manage to tie myself to the tree so I can feel properly secure. What else is here…? Oh, pointy sticks…duh, they're picks for climbing the smoother, more difficult trees. Handy…and then, what's this? A tiny bottle of blue liquid. Oh, damn, what is that stuff, I recognise it from somewhere…it's, uh…

**Flint**

The zero on the screen sets me off. I tear into the field, daring to skid towards the big heap of stuff nearest to the Cornucopia. My hands close around a heavy, but palm-sized, leather wallet of something. I don't check to see, because when my head turns to look for a way out to the forest, I crash into Glimmer.

We're both on the ground. She doesn't have anything on her yet, but JEEZ she is wild-eyed, her hands scrabbling to claw my eyes out.

Guess someone's not so ladylike after all. Fine by me.

I dig my nail into her ear until she shrieks, and drops to the grass. I have a matter of milliseconds to get away unscathed.

I thrash branches and leaves out of my way, leaving smears of Glimmer's blood in my wake.

Where I'm heading is anyone's guess, but it'll be far, far away from that place of hell.

**Ash**

Go, go, go!

I feel more awake than I have all week - fear is my fuel, survival instinct my ignition.

All that matters now is putting as much distance between myself and the other tributes as I can.

As I fly past the side of the Cornucopia, however, an arm appears out of nowhere and acts as the bar into which my nose smacks. I've hardly hit the ground when that arm wrenches me up again by my jacket. Next thing I know I'm tilted back in a kind of reverse headlock.

"You're mine, Four," hisses Marvel.

Fury.

"I'm no one's!"

With that I swing my leg up as high as my hip socket will let it go, and kick Marvel right in the head. He drops me, falling to his knees.

I race away into the trees, a crazed grin on my face at the thought of having just given him a concussion - mild, but still!

Then I stop right in my tracks. I have no food. No water. No weapons. Nothing. Ash, you _idiot. _

I'm still within viewing distance of the Cornucopia. Should I head back? No, only a fool would do that. It's too late. The Careers will have claimed that clearing as their own by the time they're through. But how am I supposed to survive without anything at all?

I could stay there, stricken with indecision, until the moon came up. But Clove and I accidentally make eye contact through the branches, so I leg it. And fast.

New motto: Immediate survival first. Long-term survival later.


	11. Going Under

**Chapter Eleven**

**Going Under**

**Author's Note****: Thanks to my regular reviewers/subscribers, plus TeamGlimmer :^) When I read my e-mails this morning I wanted to cry - that's how happy you can make a writer with just one review. **

**Legal:**** Still don't own shares in Hunger Games. One day Suzanne Collins will come around, though…**

**Ash**

I count the number of cannons fired for dead tributes under my breath. One…Two…Three…Four…Five…Six…Seven…Eight…

Silence.

Eight people just died. That's something I can only think of in the abstract. Maybe my brain's stopping me from getting emotional because, if I do, the grief for the other tributes will be detrimental to my survival.

I have been sitting at the base of this small tree for too long. I hate it when my mind stalls, especially at a time like this. I have to forage for food, but my immediate surroundings don't look particularly promising; no bushes bearing fruit, no edible-looking vegetation. A tiny sparrow hops between the overhead branches, and despite its cuteness, I start salivating over it. Not like I can get it though - not without a bow and arrow.

I am so screwed. And yet I sit here doing absolutely zilch about it. I mean, what am I expecting? For food to just oh-so-conveniently fall out of the -

Well I'll be damned. My eyes fixate on the unmistakable silver parachute glinting in the afternoon sun, making its carefree way down to a spot on the ground only a few feet away. This can mean only one thing: I have sponsors!

"Thank you, Finnick," I say aloud, reaching over and picking up the sphere attached to the parachute. At first I don't see how you're supposed to open it, but then my hands twist the lid loose, and I let it fall to the ground.

Whatever it is comes wrapped in tissue paper. Like a kid on my birthday, I unwrap it to reveal…bread! Oh sweet, wonderful life-sustaining bread!

Before I begin composing rapturous bread-praising sonnets, however, I see that my gift comes with a small white card.

TO KEEP YOU GOING.

Aw, that's nice, if obvious. Still, I'm so lucky to have Finnick to negotiate…

My heart stops when I catch the smaller letters beneath the message. It's not from Finnick.

It's from Antigonus. The mentor for District Five.

As if on cue, someone slams into me, sending us both to the ground. I clutch onto the bread, holding it to my chest like a baby.

"You little thief! Give it here!"

Fox Girl. I don't know anything about her, let alone how to fight her off. I decide to play the innocence card.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, okay, okay OW - " she's scratching my arms. Not cool.

" - okay, please, I'm sorry! I didn't know it was for you!"

"A likely story."

"It's true! Please, just look at me: I'm unarmed. I couldn't kill you if I tried. So how about you get off me and we can settle this like civilised people?"

She stops scratching long enough to pull a wry expression.

"Hello, this is the Hunger Games. Nothing is civilised here."

"An excellent point. But…look, if you do kill me right now, you realise my blood is going to get all over your precious loaf? Then it'll just go to waste."

She pauses to consider this new piece of information. Then, to my immense relief, she stands up and crosses her arms. I get up too, still holding the bread.

"Well come on then, give it to me."

"Can't we share?"

She looks appalled.

"_No, _we cannot _share_! It's my bread!"

My nails start digging into the crust, visibly squashing it.

"Or I could just rip the loaf to shreds and feed it to all the little birds. Your choice: half or nothing."

Her green eyes narrow. Seriously: a fox, she is.

"Fine."

"See? Who says we can't be diplomatic here?"

I slowly tear the loaf in two, although one half ends up slightly larger than the other. I make a point of handing it to Fox Girl, so she has less of a reason to attack me again.

For a couple of minutes we both just stand opposite one another in silence, chewing and savouring the thick, filling, grainy bread. My fatigue lightens considerably.

"So what now?" she says.

"I don't know," I reply truthfully. "…Alliance?"

She shakes her head with a hint of a proud smile.

"Sorry, that's not how I'm planning on surviving these Games."

Well that's just really unhelpful.

"I see. In that case, why don't we just agree not to kill each other for as long a time as possible?"

She says nothing. I need to persuade her. Time to play the intimidation card.

"You know, I was lying when I said I couldn't kill you. I don't need weapons to do that. One of the many, many benefits of gymnastics, at least for me, has been wicked upper-body strength." I deliberately stretch my arms and hands out in front of her face. It works, because I see fear light up in her eyes.

"Alright, alright," she says, still frigid. "We'll go our separate ways. But I swear, Four, if I catch you stealing from me again, there will be no diplomacy from me."

"Understood," I respond calmly. "And it's Ash. Not Four."

"Whatever."

She hesitantly turns around and starts walking away, but I have to say one more thing:

"Hey. I never got your name."

Her thin face, bored now, tilts back my way.

"Vixen, if you're that interested."

I wait until she's out of sight to, in spite of everything, have a long chuckle to myself. A girl, with a fox face and red hair, called _Vixen_. That's the best thing I've heard all day.

I walk with a little more energy thanks to the bread. And just when I think things might be looking up for me, something changes significantly in the air. It's getting heavier, and...smokier.

My heart pounds underneath my sternum as I take in the sight of orange flames, licking the trees until they turn black. And…is that a -

_SWOOSH_. I duck just as a massive fireball comes hurtling towards me. What is this?

I stumble onto my feet and take off in the opposite direction, ducking blindly every time I feel heat approaching.

My hands lash out at any branch or tree that stands in my way. What if it doesn't stop? What if this fire goes on forever?

I just keep running. All of a sudden I see a different red in front of me. It's Fox Girl - Vixen - and she's just casually walking with her back to me, totally oblivious.

"RUN! FIRE! FIRE!" I scream like a madwoman. I see her face, confused and angry at the sound of my voice. Then all I see is terror, and she races on with me.

**Flint**

I make a temporary shelter out of a tiny, damp cave a long way out from the Cornucopia. Finally I can examine the thing I picked up: in my hands it feels bumpy, and the leather is thick and tough.

A smile creeps onto my face as I unfold a selection of small, but sharp, pocket knives, gold and silver alternately.

I go so far as to do a little happy dance with my arms: now I'm sorted for self-defence and catching dinner.

I look at the sky from the mouth of the cave - if I'm going hunting I'd better do it now, before the sun sets, otherwise I won't be able to see a thing.

Having selected the sharpest knife in the wallet, I make sure the coast is clear and start looking out for something meaty.

After ten minutes of me walking in careful, quiet circles, I get bored. It's only when I stand still, however, that my eye catches a glimpse of movement amongst the trees. My knife is at the ready…

It lodges into the ground, having gone through the body of small red creature. It's still twitching…_whoa_, okay back away, Flint, back away now. Up close I realise it's a muttation: a squirrel muttation, to be precise. They call it a "sharpel", and with good reason; these foul little beasts have been genetically engineered to grow fricking massive claws, longer than a wild cat's. They're also notoriously aggressive, even more so than regular squirrels.

I wait, and eventually it gives up and dies. I breathe a sigh of relief and, with some squeamishness, I yank the knife out of the ground, taking the sharpel with it.

Good thing I found a cave - I need to make a fire and there is no way I'm going to start one up when it's getting dark. That's suicide. Although as I step outside to waft the smoke away into the air, I smell an even stronger smoke from further away. My jaw slowly drops as I watch thick grey stacks of it emerge from distant treetops. How is there such a big fire here? When did that start? And…why isn't it moving this way?

Not that I want it to, obviously, but there's something very strange about a blazing fire that only sticks to one hectare of woodland. Maybe the gamemakers are having a little fun, trying to drive some of the other tributes to the Cornucopia so they can be killed off.

As much as I hate to admit it, that makes sense. But I stay standing for a while longer, just to make doubly sure I'm safe from it.

Then, as if nothing's happened, I return to my dinner.

I have to saw off the claws, but once that's done and the meat's roasted for about twenty minutes, I find that skewered sharpel is actually quite the delicacy.

The sun is just disappearing beneath the horizon when I hear the ninth cannon go off.

**Logan**

I wake up to a darker, colder air than the one I dropped off in. My head is so…bleh. I must still be losing a lot of blood…how am I still alive, let alone awake?

My eyes droop to my left shoulder, and then instantly widen. I don't know how, but the blood stains are dry. _Someone's_ _wrapped my wound in leaves_.

Feverishly, I look around, straining my eyes in the setting sunlight, but there's no one else around. Must have already been and gone. But who on earth would do that for me? I know sponsors send parachutes via our mentors, but this is something else entirely.

Still, whoever it was, I'm now indebted to them: my thoughts feel clearer. Maybe I will get through tonight after all. My shoulder's throbbing and stinging like crazy, though. I need something to soothe the wound if I'm ever going to sleep.

Then I glance up ahead on my left, and it only hits me now that the tree I'm in is right beside a creek. Brilliant! Guess I was too distracted by the shock of my injury to notice the first time.

My left hand's clasped around something: the tiny blue bottle. Ohhh…I remember now. It's iodine, to treat water and make it drinkable. The odds, dare I say it, do seem to be in my favour this afternoon.

I carefully untie the knots in my rope, and wrap it around my right hand so I can ease myself down the tree.

I'm still a bit unsteady on my feet, but I get to the water's bank just fine. I assess the condition of my shoulder: buried beneath the long, smooth leaves I can't actually make out how much it's healed, if at all. But I do know that my t-shirt sleeve is totally ripped, hanging down in shreds.

I kneel down on the grass and slowly unwrap the leaves, afraid of what I might see underneath. Ooh…the cut may not be deep, but it's long, thin and very, very red. I peel off my t-shirt and, shivering in the chill of the approaching evening, my right hand scoops up cold, rushing water. I have to lean forward to get any of it to bathe my wound. Ah, ah…ooh, that's nice. I feel the cut hiss with pain, but it's good. I'm preventing infection.

Even though I should really use the iodine on the water, it's all the way up the tree, and I don't even have a container to collect it in, so I just gulp a few handfuls down. That is so beautifully refreshing.

I go back to rhythmically sloshing water over my shoulder, wiping away the residual blood on my pale skin.

"Could do this all night," I mutter to myself.

"Don't count on it."

I spin around, startled, onto my side to stop myself from falling into the creek. I have to prop my body up with my right arm, because my left can't take any weight.

The Careers stare down at me with menacing sneers on their faces, and all I can wish for at that moment is to not have taken my shirt off. Clove raises an eyebrow appreciatively at the sight of my wound.

"I see you couldn't quite escape my knife, then. I'm just sorry it didn't get you in the back of the head."

I'm too struck down by fear for my life to respond. Cato sniggers, and then, in a business-like manner, cocks his head towards Marvel on his right.

"Kill him."

"My pleasure."

My arm flies to my face, but that just makes my left shoulder thud to the ground OH THAT HURTS -

Marvel pounces onto me, and whether he means for this to happen or not, we both fall off the bank into the creek.

So cold. So very. Very. Ice. Cold.

My good arm shoots up out of the water as I feel myself getting carried away by the current. I grab what I think is Marvel's shoulder, and wrench him back beneath the surface. Suddenly his strong hands are around my neck, and he shakes me violently back and forth. Water goes up my nose, down my throat, bubbles from my muted cries clouding my vision. Frantically I throw myself forward against the force of the water, until I've slammed Marvel's back, and hopefully his head, into the wall of the bank.

His grip loosens enough for me to kick upwards. My head cuts through the air, and I'm spluttering and coughing manically. I can see my breath in the darkening air, as well as the other four Careers…four? Who's the other -

I'm pulled back down into the freezing water. My teeth clench. Marvel pushes me down as far as I will go to the floor of the creek. My shoulder kills, and my throat struggles against the merciless pressure of Marvel's fingers as they dig deeper and deeper into my neck and water is filling my lungs and I don't know how much longer I can -

Something stops. I think it's my heart.

**Dan**

I spring up from my place on the sleeping bag. A cannon. The bloodbath is long finished, so who is it? Is it the girl from my tribute? Ash? Thorn? Katniss, or Peeta?

I try and stay emotionally detached for now - the night sky is bleeding into what was daylight, which means that any minute now the gamemakers will list the dead tributes thus far.

Man, it's cold. Good thing these jackets absorb heat as well as deflect it. I slide my legs into my sleeping bag and zip it up as far as I can whilst remaining in a sitting position against this log. I tuck the ends of my sleeves over my hands, and then bury them, crossed, in my armpits.

I could really use a pillow.

To distract myself from the discomfort, I carry out the grim task of trying to deduce who's still alive apart from me. There were eight cannons, now nine… well, I'm gonna assume for argument's sake that all the Careers are up and running without so much as a scratch on them. That's Marvel, Glimmer, Cato and Clove. Then me. I know Katniss got away. That's six.

Ash probably made it out of there; she's tough. Oh, and Flint. I think I remember Foxy's red hair disappearing into the bushes. Nine people. Thresh, of course. Peeta? Maybe, although I don't recall seeing him leave the clearing. I'll keep the number at ten, for now.

Who else am I forgetting…? Oh yeah, Logan. And Thorn! How did I forget about her? Hmm…I honestly can't tell if she might have made it out of there alive or not. She's like a walking time bomb, all nervous and stuff, before blowing a fuse and breaking out some insane kung fu moves, like in training.

That makes eleven or twelve of us still alive. But if there have only been nine cannons, then I've failed to name three or four other tributes. I guess I'll leave that to the Capitol.

Nyaaahhh…Hunger Games? More like Hunger Pangs. I mean, I'm seriously grateful to have a sleeping bag and first aid kit on me, but if I had like a knife or something I might have been able to eat. There's a bush near me with lots of dark berries, but I didn't do very well at the edible plants station during training, so I don't even trust myself to go near them.

The deafening notes of Panem's national anthem suddenly interrupt the quiet night air. Up against the dark sky is a laser projection of the eagle insignia, symbolising pride and strength for our nation, blahblahblahblahblah…

Then through the speakers, which must be all over the arena for every tribute to hear, there resounds a booming automated voice:

"The Fallen."

Here we go.

**Thorn**

I awake bleary-eyed from my dehydrated sleep to the sounds of the anthem. Why does it have to be so loud… then I sit up straight, remembering that at least eight tributes have died, and now we can find out who they are.

The same photos used for the showcase scores are displayed tonight. In white laser form, the tributes look like genuine ghosts:

Girl from Three. Her name was Perdita. Fourteen.

Dyon from Four.

Boy from Five, called Tristram. Fifteen.

Mailo from Six.

Logan…_no_.

My hand flies to my mouth as a strangled sob makes itself heard. I can't believe it…not Logan. _Not Logan_. He seemed like such a nice guy. I can't kid myself that he was going to win, but there is no way he deserved to die. And on the first day, as well.

Only eight cannons went off for the bloodbath, I remember that…so when did he die? I must have been asleep when it happened. Oh, that's terrible.

The list goes on a while longer.

Hady Jackal, Logan's partner tribute. Just thirteen. Poor girl…

Kiko. Oh dear…and yet I'm not in the least bit surprised. Just very disheartened. It's when children as vulnerable as him are reaped that these Games are really at their most sickening.

I start trembling, but I can't tell whether from the cold or from anger.

With that, the hologram ends. That's it. One day down. However many are left really just depends on how bloodthirsty the Careers are feeling.

I hug my knees to my chest and wish, to no avail, that it wasn't so cold. I want to go back and see if I can find anything left in the Cornucopia, but the Careers will just be waiting there.

Basically, it's a choice between bleeding to death or freezing to death. Fabulous.

Actually, no. You know what? I'm going to create a third option: get up and find real shelter. Never mind that I can barely see my own hand in front of my face - I'm determined not to turn into a human ice-cube overnight.


	12. The First Night

**Chapter Twelve**

**The First Night**

**Author's Note****: I wrote this in the same night as Chapter Eleven, but posted it later. So if you've reviewed/subscribed and I haven't mentioned you, that is why. It's not because I don't like you: readers like you make me happy :^)**

**Legal****: Etc. **

**Ash**

By the time the fire finally seems to die away, Vixen and I have collapsed on the leafy floor, clutching stitches and gasping for oxygen. She leans her arms on her knees, breathless. Me, I'm supine on the ground, too exhausted to even sit up properly.

"What…the hell…was that? She pants, joining me.

"If my suspicions are right…it's the gamemakers' latest form of entertainment. Because, y'know, watching tributes murder one another with dangerous weapons is just so blasé."

Vixen laughs and sputters at the same time. She props herself up on her elbows. I do the same.

"Thank you," she says, untying and retying her thick red hair. "I guess if I hadn't heard you shrieking like a banshee behind me, I'd be burnt toast."

I shrug awkwardly. Then my eyes widen at the sight of her pant leg.

"Whoa, you're still on fire!"

"Aah!" She pats her hands furiously against her ankle, smothering the, albeit tiny, flame until it goes out. We sigh in relief simultaneously. Then it's her turn to give me a concerned look.

"Have you seen your ankle?"

I look down and almost scream: part of my own pant leg has burned away, leaving a red-raw burn which eats at my skin. Now that it's been pointed out, I feel the searing pain.

"Ooh, oh that hurts…oww…" I wince and grimace as I lightly touch it with my comparatively cool fingers.

"That's going to get infected if you're not careful."

Yeah, thanks, Captain Obvious.

I tear the rest of my right pant leg until I reach halfway up my thigh, and rip the fabric off to act as a makeshift bandage. It wraps around my ankle three times, with enough material left for me to tie a knot.

"There. It'll have to do."

"Yeah," Vixen mumbles, looking around her for no apparent reason. "Maybe tomorrow we'll be able to steal you some medicine from the Cornucopia when the Careers aren't looking."

"Yeah maybe…" I pause. "Wait, 'we'? I thought you didn't do alliances."

"I shared my food with you, and you just saved me from a crispy death. I think it'd be kind of stupid not to form an alliance now."

"Let's shake on it."

We do.

As we sit back to back (so no one can sneak up on us), trying to make the best out of a singed, bad hair situation, the list of dead tributes is projected onto the night sky - by which I mean the forcefield they've designed to look like the night sky.

"Dyon…" I whisper, my heart plummeting. I was really starting to grow fond of him.

"Oh no, Tristram," Vixen says, looking vaguely sad. "Poor guy. Rest in peace."

I nod in agreement, and then gasp as Logan's face shows up.

"That's…oh, that's really depressing," I say.

"Were you close during training?"

"Not especially, but he always seemed like a really good guy, y'know. Like he wouldn't hurt anyone willingly."

"I wonder when he died. I remember seeing him get away from the bloodbath."

"Really?"

We don't need to say any more: the Careers got to him.

**Flint**

My appetite sated, I leave the chill of my little cave for the…chillier…night air just outside. I make myself as comfortable as possible on the flat stone as I watch the hologram of the dead tributes' faces flash up and then disappear.

Mailo didn't make it. I swallow down a lump.

Logan! No…are you serious? His face stays burned onto my mind long after his photo fades from the sky. I thought he'd at least have made it past the first couple of days. Guess I've just been proved wrong.

When the light of the laser zaps out of sight, I stay where I am for a few minutes, taking a short time to mourn. If anyone could see my face in the dark, all they'd see is a girl staring into space. Everything's internalised now - can't have any outward displays of emotion after my interview. I may have my knives, but I still need the prospect of sponsors to fall back on in case I run into trouble.

Five minutes later, though, trouble runs into me.

"Alliance?" comes a hoarse whisper from somewhere behind. I leap into the air and whip around, alert but terrified in the darkness that obscures everything.

"Who's there? Show yourself!"

"Kinda hard at this time of night, don't you think?"

I know that voice…but I can't place the face.

"District?"

"Eight."

"…Dan? Dan Whitebone?"

"That's me."

"Sorry. I can't see anything."

"You're not alone on that front."

"What do you want?"

"What I said - an alliance."

"Yeah, but why?"

"You found shelter?"

"What's it to you?"

"Flint," his voice sounds impatient now. "If I don't find somewhere to keep relatively warm tonight, I'll be one of those sad tributes who dies from exposure."

"Okay, okay, point made," I say. The mouth of the cave is literally two feet away, but he probably doesn't know that.

"I've got a first aid kit. And a sleeping bag. We could share."

"_What_?"

"What? No! Oh, come on, I didn't mean it in _that_ way. Please?"

"…Okay, fine. But only because I'm too cold to argue."

"Um, h-hi. Could I join you?"

…Who the frick is _that_?

**Thorn**

Making my way through the arena when it's pitch black isn't as easy as I'd imagined. My other senses are all heightened to ridiculous levels, so I start imagining things that probably aren't there: I scratch at invisible mosquito bites, flinch at non-existent twigs…

After what feels like ages, the familiar feeling of panic kicks in. I so should have stayed where I was. Now I'm going to die of exhaustion, walking in endless, blind circles, getting nowhere except closer to my death.

I initially think my mind's playing more tricks on me when I start hearing voices. They're faint, but I can tell the general direction in which they lie. My steps become more cautious. I don't want to scare them off, or, if they're Careers (please no) make them come after me.

I begin to hear snippets of a dialogue, including the words "alliance", "shelter" and "flint". Flint! So I'm not going craz…ier. Well, that's a small consolation.

"_What_?"

"What? No! Oh, come on, I didn't mean it in _that_ way. Please?"

"…Okay, fine. But only because I'm too cold to argue."

They've settled on something, whatever it is. Now or never.

"Um, h-hi. Could I join you?"

"Whoa! Who is that? We're armed!"

"Dan? Is that you?"

"Maybe…"

"It's me, Thorn."

"Thorn?" Now Flint's speaking. She sounds exasperated. "_Jeez_, woman, you almost made me knife you."

"You have knives?" In the dark, that makes me very nervous.

"From the Cornucopia."

"Oh, g-good for you. I got nothing, hence my, uh, being here. Did you say something about shelter? B-because that's what I could really do with right now."

"Yes, thank you Thorn," says Dan. I feel his breath puff out near my face, and hear the chattering of his teeth. "Now for goodness' sake can we actually use it instead of standing around talking about it?"

"Sounds good to me," says Flint, her tired face illuminated by the firelight.

Wait a minute.

I grab one of their arms each and lower my voice to a whisper.

"Has anyone else noticed that we can suddenly see each other?"

Their eyes light up immediately. Dan flashes his gorgeous smile, but it quickly vanishes as he catches sight of something in the distance. I follow his eyes.

Just beyond a row of trees, we can make out a distinctly orange fire, contained within a circle of sticks. A girl sits beside it, holding her palms out to soak up the heat.

"Oh, what are you doing?" Dan mutters, a gloomy look in his blue eyes. "You stupid girl, what are you doing?"

"What we all wish we were doing," I respond. Flint takes a step back and points ahead.

"Look…it's them."

I don't know what she's talking about until I see the unmistakable faces of the Career Pack. Cato leads them, followed by Clove, Marvel, Glimmer and…Peeta? I don't understand that.

The three of us are silent and still, badly hoping that the trees are enough to hide us from view.

Which means we have to watch every second of what happens next.

The girl sits there, at an angle so that they're just out of her sight. Stealthily the five of them stand in a group, until Peeta leans forward and snaps a twig.

Her blonde head turns, and her expression goes immediately from neutral to horrorstruck. She tries to get up and run, but it's already too late. Glimmer and Clove grab her arms to keep her still. Cato unsheathes the longest and most terrifying sword I have ever seen.

Her scream sears itself into my veins just as sharply as Cato drives the sword through her chest. I can't close my mouth. My knees are weak.

The girls let her fall to the ground in a heap, and Marvel kicks her in the ribs as they walk away, cackling their heads off. Well, except Peeta, who just makes some half-hearted attempt at a chuckle.

I'm glad I haven't eaten anything tonight.

I shudder, and turn to see Dan on his knees, hugging himself and staring at the ground. Flint kneels down to rub her hand up and down his back, albeit a little robotically. I don't think comforting is her forté.

Her eyes look up at me, as if struck by an idea.

"Hey, get one of the sticks from the fire, will ya? We could use the light."

I don't move, but keep looking at her stupidly. A girl has just died and Flint's already coming up with ways to make her useful?

"Mourn for her later," she snaps, as if reading my mind. "Go! I'll get him inside."

Next thing I know, I'm slipping through the trees until I'm up at the fireside. I try to concentrate on a good, long-lasting branch to select, rather than the fact that there's a dead body lying at my feet.

Hang on…as I haul a thick branch out of the fire, I could swear I hear something from…from…

"Please."

I don't believe it. She's still alive. With morbid fascination I kneel down on one leg to get a closer look at her. Cato must have just missed her heart. Bloods leaks out from her mouth. Her voice is barely there.

"Kill…me…please."

I don't know why I stay there. There's no way I can end her suffering quickly.

And then something clicks at the back of my mind. She's not dead yet. There was no cannon. What if one of the Careers realises -

I get up to run away, only to stand directly opposite Peeta.

Neither of us look like we know what we're doing. But he's got a dagger in one hand, and that's enough to tell me I'm in serious trouble.

I can't run now, either. Not without giving away Flint and Dan.

So I stand with the burning branch, waiting to die...

Why am I not dead yet? Peeta hasn't said a word, not so much as made a signal for the others to come back. Like me, he's simply standing there.

No, wait, he's walking. Towards me. I shut my eyes and hope he makes it fast.

I hear a stabbing sound, but feel nothing. I open my eyes and see Peeta, at the girl's side, turning her onto her back and laying her arms out by her sides. Her cannon finally goes off.

"Sorry," he whispers to her.

He rises. _Why_ am I still here? I can't predict anything he may or may not do next.

"Go."

"W-what?"

"Go, quickly, before they come back."

In disbelief I step one, two, three paces away, my eyes locked onto him in case this is some cruel trick.

Then I just run for it, as silently as I can, back in between the trees. I look back and he's gone.

**Dan**

I don't really become aware of my surroundings again until Flint gives my shoulders a shake.

"Dan? Dan come on, focus."

"Huh? Oh, yeah, focus. Sorry."

I let my eyes wander. We must be in some kind of cave, since I can't feel the cold air so much anymore, and my head is just skimming a hard, stony surface. A small cave, then.

"Where is she? What's taking her so long?" Flint grumbles, rustling something. A zip. Oh, I get it. She's unzipping the sleeping bag all the way round so it can fold out into a blanket.

"Don't worry, I'm here," says Thorn flatly, carrying a flaming branch to the mouth of the cave. She looks like she's seen a ghost.

"What should I do with this?"

"Not sure," says Flint. "Bring it in here for just a little bit so we can warm up. But then it has to go out, otherwise we'll end up like her."

I glare at her. Shame flickers across her face briefly.

"Oh, sorry…"

"Were you guys friends?" asks Thorn, as she carefully lays down the branch and sits down to complete our circle.

"That's the thing I feel confused about: we weren't, not really. No more than you were with your partners."

Flint and Thorn exchange solemn looks.

"But it still hurts," says Flint. "It's okay, we get it."

"I can't even remember her name…" I say, the realisation dawning on me for the first time. "I'm a terrible human being."

"Welcome to the Hunger Games," says Flint bitterly. Smoke starts making her cough, so she takes the branch, shifts out of the cave and blows on it. When that doesn't work, she throws it on the stone floor and stamps it out until everything's black again. Good. I suddenly feel so exhausted. All I wanna do is sleep.

"Now, where did I put your sleeping bag…aha."

I hear more rustling, and then what I suppose is Flint's hand pushes firmly on my shoulder to lay me down. The girls shuffle around, trying to get an equal amount of cover to themselves. Eventually they settle down, one on either side of me, and a hush descends inside our shelter.

"Goodnight Flint, Thorn," I murmur as I close my eyes.

"Night."

"Night you guys."


	13. Risk Taker

**Chapter Thirteen**

**Risk Taker**

**Author's Note: Good morning/afternoon/evening! (depending on which side of the pond you live) Writing about death is a grim task indeed, so I need lots of reviews from you wonderful people to restore the balance ;^)**

**Oh, and btw to prevent potential confusion, I'd like to remind you that at this point in the HG timeline, I'm presuming the Careers haven't hired the guy from Three to be their techno-slave yet, which means the mines haven't yet been reinstalled around the supplies.**

**Legal: Okay, you know what, I'll just claim I own The Hunger Games and run off to Mexico - big plans, big plans...**

**Flint**

When my eyes finally open, it takes a few seconds to remember who I am, that I am in a cave, and that I have two people fast asleep next to me on its hard floor.

I reluctantly push back the sleeping bag and sit up, yawning inwardly. The air feels a lot fresher than yesterday, and I have never been so glad to see daylight.

What time is it? I'm not one of those people who can just look at the sun's position and name an hour. But then, duh, of course the sun in this sky isn't really there - it's all a projection...now that's a weird thought.

I glance down at Dan and Thorn. At some point in the night she rolled over and spread her arm over his chest. He doesn't seem to mind.

Thinking about it, I could kill them both right now. I have, after all, got my knives. So why don't I?

My hands stay where they are. I don't know, I guess I can't be bothered to do it now. Don't want to get blood everywhere. Also, my head is pounding, and it feels like something crawled down my throat and died. I need to find water asap.

Plus, those two aren't exactly ruthless killing machines; what harm are they gonna do to me? No, killing them would be a waste of energy. An unnecessary, rash decision. Yeah.

I do choose, however, to wake them up, otherwise they'll find me gone, think I've died, and promptly skedaddle with my stuff.

"Hey, guys, get up." I lightly pat Dan's face with the back of my hand until he swats up a slothful hand.

"Mmm, fimomins…"

"Say what now?"

"Five more minutes," he mumbles, accidentally turning onto his side and crushing Thorn's arm in the process. She jerks awake.

"Owww, Dan, get off, get off, get off."

At last they sit up. Seeing their faces closely in the light, for the first time since the Capitol, is bizarre. Dan's got a five o'clock shadow and Thorn's eyes are puffy and panda-like. Makes me wonder how bad I look.

"List -" I begin, but my voice is so hoarse I have clear my throat. "Listen, right now our priority is water. You got a water-purifier or something in that kit?"

"I doubt it," says Dan, stretching his neck and reaching for the metal box. After having a rummage, however, his eyes light up.

"Hey, how 'bout that! We've got chlorine tablets. They should do the trick."

"Nice," I say. "But we need a container or something as well."

Silence.

"Okay…minor setback," I think aloud. "Guess I'll just have to try and steal something from the pile when they're not looking."

"Wait, when who's not looking?" says Thorn sharply. "Flint, you're not seriously thinking of going to the Cornucopia, _by yourself_? What if the Careers are there waiting?"

"You don't think I know that? We've gotta be realistic: either I risk a few battle wounds from the Careers, who may or _may not_ be lurking around, or we all sit here like ducks and wait to die from dehydration. Your mileage may vary, Thorn, but personally I'll take the first option any day."

"Just be careful, okay?" says Dan. "If you see them, I want you to turn around and run straight back. We can always try again later."

"Yeah, yeah, I know." I flex my feet, pulling my boots on and standing up in the mouth of the cave. I take two knives from my wallet, carrying one, and sticking the other down my sock.

"I'll be back before you know it. Don't do anything stupid while I'm gone."

I have to keep stopping to look at my surroundings. All the trees in this place look the same, so trying to remember my route from the Cornucopia yesterday is a challenge.

Eventually, I catch sight of tiny dark red stains on some long leaves - I smile at the thought of Glimmer's ear. Must be annoying the hell out of her.

After covering a little more ground, I see the clearing dead ahead. All the bodies of the bloodbath tributes have been cleared away, like the massacre never even happened.

Looks like the Careers have moved everything from the Cornucopia to a spot nearer the lake. It's a small mountain of food, weapons, medicine and lots of other precious supplies. They're such hoarders.

Tentatively, I take a step forward into the clearing, checking left and right, and straining my ears for any signs of movement.

But it's only me. The entire area around the Cornucopia and the lake is totally deserted…_Sweet_.

Wherever the Careers have gone, I don't want to stick around to welcome them back, so I jog towards the supplies, my head throbbing with each step.

Wow, where do I start? A bright red water flask grabs my attention, so I reach out for that. Some iodine, good - we'll need that once the chlorine tablets run out.

I want to kick myself for not bringing Dan's rucksack. I could have packed it full of stuff. Still, I get as many things as my pockets can manage: a packet of rice, two apples, a tub of medicinal-looking balm…that's all I can take. Oh well, like Dan said, there's always later.

I move to the lakeside, kneel down and unscrew the flask cap. Seeing my reflection in the still water almost makes me jump: my hair is greasy and strands of it are loose behind my ears; my eye sockets look hollow like a raccoon's, and my skin's oily and burnt from the sun. What a sight for the audience I must be.

I sweep the flask through the water until it's full to the brim. Then I steal a glorious sip and put the lid back on.

That's when I hear the screeches. And a cannon.

My head whips to the right, and I see Cato, Clove and Marvel running towards me, shaking their arms and heads wildly. The cannon must have been for Glimmer, because she's nowhere to be seen. They're all shouting and babbling stuff that doesn't make any sense, and I can't understand what's happened to them until I notice the red marks all over their skin: stings or bites of some kind, with hallucinogenic venom. Sucks to be them.

I almost run, but then it becomes clear they're not even aware of my presence: Cato thrusts his arms and face into the water, before pulling off his shirt and chucking it onto the ground like it's trying to kill him. Marvel's staring down at his legs in horror, batting insanely at creatures that aren't there.

Clove…Clove sees me, but at the same time she doesn't - her eyes tell me she's seeing me in a much more terrifying form. I have to be exterminated immediately.

This thought process happens too slowly for me to react in time. Maybe I'm finding the whole scene too engrossing to move.

Either way, one of Clove's knives find me before mine can find her.

"DIE! DIE! DIE!" she yells, not sadistically, but as a terrified girl trying to kill off her nightmares.

My shoulder.

My thigh.

My left lung.

My knife and water flask are on the floor. So am I. Now she's on top of me, just stabbing and stabbing manically, my blood spattering her face.

The pain shoots out from all sorts of places. I can feel nerves getting spliced.

Right leg.

Both kidneys.

Liver.

Intercostal muscles between my ribs.

I don't make a sound throughout. That's how much it hurts. The sky is above me, open and a little cloudy but so pure and beautiful and I want to be up there so badly to make this pain end -

Millions upon millions of tiny white stars explode across my vision like confetti as she brings the tip of her knife down between my eyes.

**Dan**

"She's been gone a long time, don't you think?"

"I don't know. I don't have a watch," says Thorn, lunging for a small bird perched on a tree branch and missing. We took the liberty of borrowing Flint's other knives to try and make ourselves useful: we're attempting to catch lunch. Or is it breakfast?

"Maybe we should go find her."

"We can't both go - someone needs to watch the cave."

"Okay, so watch the cave."

"You're really going out there on your own? Why don't you just wait a little longer? She'll…probably be back any second."

"I don't know, Thorn. It's just...the cannon."

She looks at me with those large, anxious brown eyes, like she's thinking what I'm thinking: what if it was hers?

"For all we know, it was for someone else," she says eventually. "But if you're that worried, then by all means go. Just be as quick as you can. I don't want to be by myself for too long or I'll start wondering if you're dead."

"Don't worry about me. Just keep trying to catch something."

She launches herself at a tree trunk, failing to apprehend a sharpel.

"That might take a while at this rate."

I chuckle.

"You know you can always just throw the knife instead of your body."

She smiles, and waves me off as I head off in Flint's direction.

I try and follow the route that looks the most travelled - faint bootprints in the firm mud help guide my way to the clearing.

At first I only see green grass and the hollow Cornucopia. But then my eyes run over the lake, and my worst fears are confirmed.

"Flint!" I cry out, unable to care less who hears me as I sprint across the grass. There are four bodies, three of them Careers. I don't think they're dead - I would have heard more cannons. They're definitely passed out, though, with hideous red lumps branded on their faces and arms.

Clove is slumped over Flint's body. So much red.

I shove the Career off her, and recoil at what I see: all over her body are stab wounds, bleeding into the grass underneath. There's one in her face.

My hands reach for the lakeside, and I retch hydrochloric acid into the water. My eyes water profusely.

I slowly, gradually, lean over her. Her eyes look dead and unblinking, but when I touch my fingertips to her neck, I can just about feel a pulse. Oh _no. _She's still alive...

But the pulse is barely there. She's barely there.

I sob when her fingers twitch weakly. Maybe she knows I'm here.

"Oh, Flint," I say, as my hand holds hers tightly. My other hand prises the bloody knife out of Clove's bony fingers. I don't want to do this, but I also don't want her to suffer any longer, so, jaw clenched, I drive the knife into her heart.

Her cannon goes.

I can taste my salty tears. No one deserves to go through that much pain.

I close her eyes.

"Rest in peace, my friend."

**Ash**

Vixen and I wake up covered in leaves next to a fallen tree. Well, we had to think of something for a blanket.

The sun is high in the sky. Must be around noon. I wonder what's unfolded in the last few hours.

I sit up and peek over the edge of the tree. No one around.

"Rise and shine."

She groggily blinks open her eyes and clutches her head.

"Ohh…I really need water."

"Same here. Looks like we've been out for quite a while; better get up and move on."

"Yes, I guess that's sensible," she sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose.

She stands up with relative ease, but when I try, I wince and crumple onto the tree. My ankle was only sore yesterday; now it's blistering with pain.

"You okay?"

"It's my ankle, I can't walk on it."

Vixen pauses to think, and then, with a degree of reluctance, offers her arm for support.  
"Are you serious?"

"Hey, you were the one who suggested an alliance in the first place. This is what allies do."

"Thanks," I say. Laboriously, I hobble alongside her through the forest.

After about half an hour, her shoulder can't take any more of me, and so together we find a long, solid stick which, with a knife she picked up from the Cornucopia, Vixen whittles into a makeshift crutch. We gain speed.

Much better. Well, okay, not much, but an improvement nonetheless.

"So who do we think is left in the Games?" I ask. Vixen starts counting on her fingers:

"The Careers are a given: that's four."

"We make six."

"But there was another cannon last night, so…who might have died?"

"Don't know, but whoever it was, the fire might have got them."

"Yeah, maybe," she says.

"I bet the star-crossed lovers are still alive," I say.

"Oh, they've been getting on my nerves since day one. But I suspect you're right. That's at least eight of us still alive."

"Don't forget Thresh from Ten."

"Oh yeah, that guy. I'm planning on steering clear of him at all costs."

She walks, and I limp, for a few more silent minutes. Suddenly she says,

"You know she and I ran headfirst into each other during the bloodbath."

"Who?"

"Katniss."

"Really? And she didn't kill you?"

"Well, I'm here, aren't I?" Vixen remarks dryly. "No, it was bizarre - we just stared at each other, waiting for someone to lash out. Then I risked running for it, and when I looked behind, I saw she was going in the opposite direction."

"Huh."

"I know."

"Hey," I whisper, halting and leaning more on my crutch. "Look!"

She follows my gaze, and sees what I see: through a mesh of twigs and branches we can just make out Thorn, tending to a small fire and prodding at whatever's roasting on it. It smells delicious.

"What should we do?" I ask.

"Part of me says we should kill her," Vixen mutters, making my heart thud. She can count me out. "But at the same time…" (thank goodness) "…she got a 10 for her showcase. I'd rather not find out first hand how she managed that."

"Good call," I say quickly. "We should go and make a truce."

"Okay, fine, but I swear I'm bailing on you if you start suggesting we make peace with the Careers."

"So _not_ going to happen."

I limp ahead of Vixen, wondering how I'm going to make my presence known without making Thorn panic and possibly kill me.

But I don't have to, because I trip, and fall flat on my face.

Ow.

"Whoa!" I see her leap up and brandish a small knife. Then, as if we haven't already seen it, she shouts, "I have a knife!"

"Relax, Ten," Vixen says coolly, helping me up. "We come in peace, or at least in a reluctance to kill you."

She doesn't relax.

"How do I know I can trust either of you?"

"Short answer: you can't," I say, brushing myself off.

"What's the long answer?"

"You can't," Vixen says. "Look, if either of us wanted to kill you, we would have done it by now. Now will you put down the knife already?"

She does, and returns to her seat on the ground, not taking her eyes off us.

"Guess I should have caught another finch. Didn't know we'd be having company."

"Uh, who's 'we'?" Vixen asks, darting her eyes back and forth.

"Another tribute, or two…" she casts her eyes downwards, looking troubled. "Dan from Eight left a while ago to find Flint, the girl from Six."

"Yeah, I know her," I say, easing down into a sitting position, my bad ankle out straight. "Where'd she go?"

"To find water. From the sounds of it she was heading for the lake."

"And she's not back yet," Vixen states rather than asks. Thorn nods.

"I didn't tell Dan this, but I'm getting more and more worried by the minute. I don't know if you guys heard a cannon a few hours -"

She's interrupted by cannon fire that very moment. We all freeze.

"Oh no. Oh please no…" Thorn wails to herself, her palms against her ears. "It's got to be one of them. Or maybe they're both gone, or -"

"Thorn, calm down," I say firmly, taking her hands in mine. "You don't know anything yet. None of us do."

That changes, however, when we hear the distinct clamour of someone crashing through the trees. Thorn and Vixen are on their feet immediately.

I watch from the ground as Dan arrives, looking seriously distraught.

"Thorn…she's-"

He doesn't have to go on. Thorn envelops him in a tight embrace, and they both leave Vixen and I to figure out the rest: Flint's dead.

**Thorn**

I'd like to think that the cannon is just my imagination's work, but it's too much of a coincidence for it not to be real.

"Oh no. Oh please no…" My hands go to my ears, trying to block out the rest of the arena and all the death that keeps happening within it. "It's got to be one of them. Or maybe they're both gone, or -"

Ash pulls my palms away from my ears and makes me look at her.

"Thorn, calm down. You don't know anything yet. None of us do."

That's rational enough. Too bad my intuition is anything but.

Our heads all whirl to the right at the sound of snapping twigs and thumping footsteps. My heart goes to my throat as I consider the likelihood that the Careers have reached us. I get up, as does the Fox.

Except it's not the Careers - it's Dan. I want to grin with relief, but a single glance at his expression is enough to tell me he's seen something devastating.

"Thorn," he groans, staggering forward, a mixture of sweat and tears running down his face. "She's -"

I wrap my arms around him before he can say anything else. I don't want to hear it aloud even though I know it's true. They got Flint.

My body is wracked with sobs. How much longer until the same thing happens to him? Or to me?

"How did it happen? Who did it?" I ask as we pull away from each other.

"Give…give me a second. I gotta sit down."

I put him next to the fire. He runs a shaky hand through his blonde hair, and finally notices Ash and the Fox.

"What are you doing here?"

"We wanted to propose an alliance," Ash says, massaging her ankle, which is covered in what looks like half of her pant leg. "Although maybe we should discuss that later."

I sit back down, and take the finch, now crisp and starting to blacken, off the spit.

"You don't have to tell us what happened if you don't want to," I say gently. He stares at his hands, and tries to get rid of bloodstains that tint his skin. My eyes widen.

"Clove, from the looks of it," he begins at last. "All the Careers - except for Glimmer, I didn't see her - were unconscious. Seemed like they'd been attacked by insects or something." He swallows. "I knew Clove liked her knives, but this…oh, Thorn it was terrible. She'd cut Flint up all over."

"Oh Dan…"

"And that's not even the worst part."

The three of us wait, staring at his face. It's as if he has to overcome a physical barrier to say,

"Even with all those wounds, she was still alive."

"No way," Ash exclaims, her mouth open. "She really is tough...was, I mean."

"Yeah," mumbles Dan. "I couldn't imagine what that must have felt like, if she was even feeling anything at that point. I had to put her out of her misery."

"I am so sorry," I blurt out, even though it's meaningless now.

Dan just responds by reaching his arm around my neck. I shuffle over to his side and let him rest his head on my shoulder.

The rest of the day is uneventful in comparison. I'm glad for it.

I split the finch between the four of us, which means meagre portions. Still, it's kind of nice having more company; it almost compensates for Flint's sudden absence. Almost.

Ash and the Fox, who, strangely enough, is called Vixen, tell us about the fire last night. Thank goodness it didn't cross my path - that would have been too much for one day.

Dan sobers up from his trauma recovery a little once he notices Ash's ankle. He fetches the first aid box, and undoes her DIY bandage. I see her nails dig into the ground as he dabs antiseptic on her burn, which thankfully doesn't look too deep. Ash grimaces, but when he starts rubbing a mysterious balm into her flesh, she looks blissfully relieved.

"Was that in the first aid box too?" I ask. Dan sombrely replaces the lid.

"No. I found it next to her, along with some other things she managed to get from the Cornucopia."

With that, he withdraws a packet of rice, two apples, a small vial of what looks like iodine, and a red water flask.

"Boy am I going to miss her," he says sadly. I take the flask out of his hands and look inside. It's full. I get a chlorine tablet, drop it in there and swirl it around.

Then I suggest we all sit around the fire until sundown. Vixen puts it out when the anthem sounds. We watch as Glimmer's photo is beamed up. Then Flint's, and finally the face of the girl from Eight.

Before we take turns to sip from it, I raise the flask above my head in a toast. I really want District Six to be watching this right now.

"To Flint Verdasa. May you be at peace."

"To Flint," the others murmur earnestly.


	14. On The Edge

**Chapter Fourteen**

**On The Edge**

**Author's Note: Okay, don't be alarmed if you see chapters being posted at really weird times/don't get posted for whole days - it's simply the consequence of my having returned to school (for the last term before uni, HOW SCARY IS THAT?). I'm exhausted but, because I love you guys so much, I'll keep on updating :^)**

**Oh, and yes, I know that **_**technically**_** there was no mention of a cliff in these Games…that's why they call it artistic license!**

**Legal: If you'd like to file a legal complaint, kindly look elsewhere.**

**Ash**

I wake up to three silver spheres, covered in metallic sheets, surrounding our little encampment. More parachutes!

"Hey guys, get up," I say, softly shaking Thorn and Dan out of sleep. Vixen blinks, her eyes taking in our sponsored gifts.

"Wow," she mumbles, picking one up and twisting off the lid. Her face falls momentarily with disappointment before handing it to Dan.

"From Woof, it would seem."

He looks inside eagerly, only to pull out…a cup of broth?

"Is that it?" he gripes, checking out the little white card at the bottom of the sphere. Sitting next to him, I can't resist peering over his shoulder:

CARRY ON THE DRAMA. THEY'RE LOVING IT.

"What does it say?" asks Thorn, opening up the second one. He crumples up the card in his hand. His face is calm but his eyes are burning with cold anger.

"Nothing important."

"Well, at least now you've got a hot breakfast," she says.

"You mean we've got a hot breakfast."

"Don't be ridiculous. You obviously earned it, so you should get to enjoy it all."

He earned it. We all earned these parachutes, but by doing what exactly? By me running for my life? By Dan putting a knife through Flint's heart to stop her pain? I suddenly lose any sympathy I might have had for any person, in any district, watching these Games in the security of their own home, and being _entertained_ by the horror growing around us.

"Oh, Ash, this one's for you," says Thorn, tossing the sphere my way. I take a look.

"Finnick, you hunk of a mentor," I laugh, holding up another tub of the soothing wonder balm. Last night it felt like cool, crystallised raindrops were caressing my wounded skin. I kiss the lid and smile.

"So whose is the last one?" asks Vixen, her elbows on her bent knees.

"Let's have a look," Dan says, reaching over to pick it up. The lid comes off to reveal something totally random: sunglasses. A single pair.

"Um, what?" He dangles them in the air. Bemused, Thorn joins us and plucks the card out of the sphere. Her expression tells me the message doesn't make things any clearer.

"It's from my mentor, but I don't get it: 'Use for enlightenment purposes only.' Is he trying to be funny?"

Dan slide the glasses on.

"Whoa, I can't see a thing in these!" He takes them off again. "Must be his idea of a practical joke."

"Well I'm not amused," she says, looking to the sky. "What, is sending something useful, like a weapon, too much for you? Honestly."  
"We do have knives," Vixen points out, flashing her own in the sunlight.

"Maybe, but they're small," I chime in, applying more balm to my burn. "Sooner or later the Careers are going to find us, and when they do, we'll be in need of something more substantial."

"I guess there's always the Cornucopia, but…" Vixen trails off, looking specifically at Dan. He folds his arms resolutely and deliberately neutralises his stare. Looks like if the audience wants inner conflict from him, then that's exactly what they won't be getting.

"But nothing. I'll go and see what I can find. The fewer weapons the Careers have at their disposal, the easier I'll be sleeping."

"You should go with someone," I say, before glancing at my ankle. "I'd volunteer, but I don't think I'd end up being very useful in this condition."

"Don't worry about it."

"I'll come with you," says Vixen, standing up and tucking her knife into her belt. "I feel like a good walk."

"Sure, why not...if you want," Dan replies. Hm, I get the feeling those two are still a little hostile around one another. They're going to have one awkward journey up to the clearing.

"No time like the present," she says, and since none of us can come up with a good argument for the contrary, he shrugs and starts walking with her.

"Be back soon," I say.

"And be careful!" calls Thorn.

**Dan**

As Vixen and I try to get our bearings en route, I can't help but notice that this feels more than a little…awkward. I mean, I spoke to her for the first time just yesterday; I don't really know anything about her at all.

Makes me wish Thorn had volunteered to go with me first.

"So, uh, Vixen," I say, breaking the palpable silence. "Tell me about District Five."

"Why?"

"…Just trying to make conversation."

"Oh. Sorry to disappoint, but there's not very much to say about it."

"Come on, there's gotta be something you miss about your home. I thought you guys had the cleanest hospitals in Panem. Except for the Capitol, obviously. "

"I wouldn't know. I've never been in one."

"Oh. Um…is the scenery nice?"

"Maybe we should just keep walking and, you know, not make small-talk."

Right then. I shut up, letting my ears listen to the chorus of mockingjays flitting between branches.

Finally, we get to the edge of the clearing, looking out from a different position to the one I was in yesterday. My meaty broth threatens to come back up at the thought, so I just try and remain focused on the task at hand.

"There it is," I whisper, nodding to the pile of supplies. A short distance away from it, the Careers are practicing their archery, shooting arrows into tree trunks. All three of them (what happened to Peeta is anyone's guess) are very much alive. Flint deserves to live more than all of them put together.

"Wait a second," Vixen mutters, narrowing her eyes. "Looks like they've got a watchman."

I lean my head to the right and notice, seated on an upturned crate, a younger tribute. What was his name…Chip, that's it. From Three.

"Man, how did he score that job? He doesn't look that strong."

"They must need him for something," says Vixen, not taking her eyes off him. "But what?"

That's when I notice precisely what's different about the pile from yesterday. Now, it's surrounded by what look like lots of molehills. That's an awfully specific layout…

"The mines," she whispers, reaching the same conclusion. "They've dug them up from under the platforms and reinstalled them somehow."

"Guess they want to up security. One false step and we'll be diced."

"So what do we do?"

She and I fall silent. There doesn't seem to be a way around this. Even if we were to somehow figure out how to steal the remaining weapons without being blown to pieces, there's almost a guarantee that the Careers or Chip would catch us.

I'm about to abandon the mission when my eyes latch onto the sword perched on a rock between the supplies and the lake. It's the same one Cato used to…deal with my partner tribute. And he's just put it to one side while he, Marvel and Clove distract themselves with bows and arrows.

I could do some serious damage with it. To them. To Clove. But…as much as it pains me to admit it, I'd only be asking for murder. My own. I need to make it back to Thorn and Ash in one piece.

"You see what I see?"

"…Oh. How very careless of Cato," Vixen says, a smile cracking onto her lips.

"I know. He doesn't deserve to keep it."

"I agree, but it's a big risk to take. One wrong move and, in all seriousness, you're dead."

"I know," I say unblinkingly. "But it'd be so worth it."

"Well...only you know what you're capable of," she says, patting me on the shoulder in what I can only assume is an attempt at friendliness. "I've got your back."

"Thanks."

I take a deep, quiet breath, remove my jacket to minimise potential rustling, and pelt across the grass.

My eyes flash first to Chip, whose back is to me. He doesn't turn around.

I steer clear of the supplies, in case I set off a mine. I reach the rock, and lightly jump in the air, landing on the balls of my feet.

This moment is crucial. My chest hurts like hell, but I keep my breathing shallow and as silent as I can, with the three Careers a mere fifteen feet away. The rock and the sword are right there in front of me. I can see the afternoon light reflecting off the blade...he must clean it after every kill.

I let my eyes dart down to my hand, watching very carefully as it closes around the hilt of the sword. Even the tiniest scraping sound against the rock could be the difference between life and death.

Sweat drips into my eyes. A spark of hope flickers through my heart as the sword comes silently away from the rock.

And then there's another hand.

My eyes stare straight into Cato's. He's trying to crush all the bones in my hand, and I feel my arm being pushed back as we lock into a struggle for the sword.

Now my knees are buckling…and then I see Clove's smirk over Cato's. Something, I don't know what, flares up inside of me. It's stronger than anger. It's a ferocious desire for vengeance, and it's enough to make my elbow to come into contact with Cato's jaw. His grip loosens, and the sword comes out of my hands.

_I don't care_.

"YOU!" I launch myself at Clove. We spin through the grass. I've caught her by surprise. My knuckles smash into her cheekbone.

"You killed her! YOU KILLED HER!"

"CATO, HELP - "

I'm wrenched off her tiny frame. Marvel holds my arms still for a second, but I kick backwards into his knees and jab my elbow into his ribs. He backs off.

I quickly scan each of their livid faces before high tailing it into the forest.

This is a section I don't remember going through in my time here; I have no idea what's up ahead.

So many things rush past, smack me in the face, cut across my skin and snag on my clothes, but all of that is irrelevant now. I have to keep running, no matter what.

But my body is in agony; I've never pushed it so hard. This makes the bleep test look like a leisurely stroll.

When my arms thrash through a final set of branches, however, I realise I have an even bigger problem.

My feet skid to a halt with no distance to spare. Dust falls into the air, and tiny pebbles bounce off the face of the steep drop that is a cliff.

I'm at the edge of the arena. My mind is cast back to stories of the Second Quarter Quell, when its victor, Haymitch Abernathy, used the pre-installed bouncing reflex at the bottom of a cliff, just like this one, to stay alive. Bad news for me is, it's unlikely the gamemakers would let a tribute have that same advantage in these Games; waiting over the edge is death, and nothing else.

"It's over, Eight."

I slowly, shakily, turn to face Clove, backed up by Cato and Marvel. Like me, they're breathless, scratched and bruised. The only difference is they're safe from a certain death.

"Looks like you've got no place left to run," sneers Cato, stepping forward. I don't move.

"Oh, _that's_ original," I say, making the words as acerbic as I can. He just shakes his head.

"You're an idiot, you know that. Trying to make off with my sword."

"Well, for what it's worth," I growl, straightening up and wiping sweat out of my eyes. "You're a psycho. That goes for all of you."

"It's what the people want, isn't it?" Clove pipes up in her twisted little way.

"Really?" I fix her with a steady glare. "I mean look at you; are you proud you killed Flint? Did you enjoy causing her excruciating death? Seeing her blood spill onto the grass?"

It's Cato's turn now.

"And you. Were you pleased when you left my partner to die, bleeding, and in unimaginable pain, on the ground, alone?"

They're stoic. No smart comebacks from them now.

"Well I hope it was fun while it lasted. Because their blood will always be on your hands. Their families will never recover from this. And…" I feel tears prick out of my eyes to mingle with the sweat, but I couldn't care less. "…And even if I lived through these Games, I'd wish I could have died. Just to forget the bloodshed."

I feel drained, to the point where I don't resist when Cato uses the hilt of his sword to push me hard in the shoulder. My heels tip back, then my legs, my back…

Gravity is different now. I'm falling into light.

**Thorn**

For an hour, after Dan and Vixen leave, I watch Ash get up and take tentative steps around our base. Whatever's in that stuff she keeps putting on her ankle, it's doing the trick.

"You know, I wonder how Katniss, Peeta and Rue are doing," I say, sharpening Flint's knives with a stone. "I mean, I haven't seen him since the first night, and the other two might as well be invisible."

"Maybe that's their secret weapon," says Ash, completing her third lap around the fire. She lowers herself into a sitting position.

"Hadn't thought of that," I respond. "Hey, come to think of it, Dan never mentioned Peeta when he came running back from…Flint. Do you think he got away from the Careers? Maybe he and Katniss have found each other now."

"Who knows..." says Ash, deep in thought. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Yeah, sure."

"I know it seems like a long while ago now, but in your interview with Caesar…"

Wait, where's she going with this?

"...Yes?"

"I guess what I'm trying to ask is, why are you so sure you won't survive the Games?"

Oh not this again. Has she forgotten there are cameras everywhere, recording this conversation word for word?

"I just won't."

"But why?"

"Because, a Career is so obviously going to win. You've seen what they can do."

"Thorn, need I remind you that, according to your sponsors, you're totally on the same level as the Careers? You got a 10."

"Well…okay, yeah, I got a 10. But so what? Katniss got an 11. By that logic, she'll win."

"I'm not necessarily talking about winning the Games," says Ash. "All I'm saying is, I think you need to give yourself more credit. Otherwise the belief that you're inevitably going to die will only make it easier to lose your will to live. It'll become a self-fulfilling prophecy."

I look her in the eyes.

"Ash, trust me. As nice as it is, you're wasting your advice. It's not a question of belief. Frustrating to hear, I know. But this is something I've never discussed properly outside my family." I rest my forehead in the heel of my hand. "All I can tell you is that a couple of months ago I got some news that…shook me up pretty badly, I-I'm sure you can guess. Life, and the will to live, took on a new meaning overnight, and as my sister or mother would tell you, I haven't really been the same person since. And that's how I know."

Silence descends like a curtain, save for the rustling of leaves in the breeze. Ash scrapes away at a twig until she reaches its wick, apparently trying to make sense of the vague answer I've just given her.

That's when we hear someone running our way.

It's Vixen. It's _only_ Vixen. I leap to my feet, but somewhere in the back of my mind the worst scenario is already a reality.

"Guys! I…" she's bent double with breathlessness. "I'm so sorry, but Dan-"

"What happened?" asks Ash sharply, forcing herself to stand.

"I don't even know! He…took a risk and went for…Cato's sword, which he'd left…unprotected. Dan thought if he…got it, we might all be safer for it. But Cato caught him red-handed, and then Dan went crazy and started attacking Clove and…they all ran off into the woods and I have no idea where they are now or if he's alive -"

"And _what_ exactly were _you_ doing while all this was happening?" I say, spitting viciousness out with the words. "Did you even try to help him?"

"Thorn, please…" Ash interjects, but I don't feel like backing down just yet.

"Well? Did you just turn around and run, leaving him all alone and defenseless?"

"He had a knife," Vixen mutters sheepishly. My hands go to my scalp in furious incredulity.

"You - you are just…you _coward_! How could you do that to him?"

"I wasn't thinking, I -"

"Damn right you weren't thinking!" My voice is raised to a shout. "Thanks to you his life is now hanging in the balance! For all we know he's already been -"

Cannon. I couldn't imagine it if I tried.

The exploding tension diffuses instantly, to make way for that unbearable void called silence.

I lower my arms. Vixen just stares, her mouth partly open. I feel myself swaying, and sit on the ground with a clumsy thud. I look to my left, and Ash is supporting herself against a tree. Her face is turned away, but it's obvious she's shedding tears.

Vixen walks slowly, deliberately, to the other side of the fire, and sits down, her expression hollow on the surface.

I'm not sure what I'm doing at that point, whether I'm crying quietly or shrieking or babbling nonsensical words under my breath or all three simultaneously. It doesn't matter. Dan is the only thing that matters to us right now. Dan, forever out of the Games.

…**Is it weird for a writer to mourn her dead characters? Tell me what you think in a review, perhaps :^) Thank you.**


	15. Famous Last Words

**Chapter Fifteen**

**Famous Last Words**

**Author's Note: I've been waiting to write this chapter for the past two days, but have been delayed by revision. For three timed essays and a speaking exam. Fun times. Please make my life that much brighter by reviewing, thank you!**

**Legal: Now, see, if I knew Latin, I could have a lot of fun with this…**

**Ash**

I don't know how the other two fare, but that night I don't fall asleep for a very long time. I'm too busy lying on my back underneath the cover of Dan's sleeping bag, looking up at the fake stars.

It feels weird, even on some level disrespectful, to be sleeping in it when he, the owner, is no longer alive.

I stare into the dark ocean of the arena's sky even after my eyes grow sore. I don't feel like moving for the rest of the Games, but when the first tinges of dawn creep in, my body finally unwinds and my head tilts to the side.

When my heavy eyelids open again, it's broad daylight. I'm the last one up, and see Thorn stirring something over the fire with a stick.

"Hey," I say groggily, sitting up. "Where did you get the…pot?" I almost say "pan", but stop myself because, although it seems silly, the word sounds too much like "Dan" for my liking. She nods to a hastily assembled pile of first aid equipment.

"Oh. Resourceful."

"Thanks. It's rice."

We had half the packet last night, and almost melted the plastic container in the process. Unless I'm mistaken, it's the last of our food.

Vixen comes back from checking between the trees for signs of unwanted company in order to eat a third of the rice. Then she passes the first aid box to me. Having no cutlery, we've improvised with a pair of twigs each, like the chopsticks some ancient cultures would have used during their meals. Not terrific, I know, but in the arena you obviously forgo a lot of luxuries. My hair is at its greasiest, and even with nearby ponds to bathe in, I know that, without deodorant, it's effectively impossible to feel or smell fresh.

"Looks like it's a hunting and foraging day today," says Thorn, wistfully setting down the scraped-clean metal box.

"You know, I was going to tell you this when we first ran into you, Thorn, but then…well, complications ensued," says Foxface, tracing random lines into the dirt.

"Tell us what?" Thorn asks.

"About the food source I found. If I remember correctly, it's not too far from here. I stumbled across it on the first day, just after I ran into Katniss."

"Are you serious?" I say, excitement spreading across my face. "What kind of food? Berries?"

"Yeah, and also nuts of some kind. Maybe you two could give me a second opinion on what they might be."

"That sounds great. I say we go right now." I stand up, a little too quickly, catching myself on a tree branch just in time.

"Easy, Ash," says Thorn, moving to get my crutch. But I power-limp over to her and rest a hand on her arm.

"No, not today. My ankle's better, really," I say, gently rotating it (owch, twinge). "I'll walk with you."

"You sure?"

"Definitely. Lead the way, Vixen."

She stands up and efficiently kicks out the fire. Then she points us towards what I guess is east.

I spend more time watching the ground than looking ahead; there are lots of prominent roots on this path that I'd rather not trip over and do myself even more damage with.

A companionable silence settles between the three of us as we walk. I get the feeling we're all still reflecting on memories of Dan. How shiny and toned he looked during the Procession in his District get up; the way he made Thorn's eyes twinkle after she rescued him from Cato during training; not to mention his crooked, charming smile…

How long have we been walking? Thirty minutes? An hour? I look back, but see only line after line of identical, looming trees. I seriously hope Vixen knows her way back to our base camp. She certainly seems confident enough, winding her way over logs and underneath branches like she's gone up and down this route hundreds of times.

"Hey, Vixen, how much further is it?"

"Not far now," she replies without looking round. "Why? Is your ankle playing up?"

"It's not that, it's just…" My eyes wander from left to right. All around us are trees, the occasional pond, but no bushes. There are vines without fruit, and clusters of inedible weeds and moss. But berries? Not a one.

Something doesn't feel right. I have a sinking feeling that Vixen's got us lost, but is too proud to admit it and just hoping that if she wanders around this forest, eventually we'll get back to where we started.

Then, abruptly, she stops. Thorn and I stop too, and stare ahead. I look at her, and she looks at me. We're both wearing confused expressions.

"Vixen…" I say in hushed tones. "Why are we at the clearing?"

"And how the hell did it take you this long to get us here?" Thorn adds, the mistrust from yesterday reappearing in her eyes.

Vixen doesn't respond right away. First, she takes a step or two forward, looking out for something I can't see. Absent-mindedly, she takes her knife from her belt and slowly turns it in her hands.

"Don't worry. I know what I'm doing." She turns back to us, and beckons me to come closer, whispering something in my ear.

"You know what I've just figured out?"

"What?"

"You're a lot more naïve than I thought."

I pull away to stare at her, and in that time she dives down to my feet and delivers a single swift gash to my ankle.

**Thorn**

I both can and can't believe what I'm seeing: Vixen cuts Ash deep in her injured ankle.

Her cry of pain shatters my hearing, and before I can do anything, Vixen grabs Ash by the shoulders and throws her into the clearing. Into plain sight of the Careers.

"_Traitor_!" I yell, punching Vixen in the face. She trips backwards into a tree trunk, but before she can make a counter-attack I jam an undercut into her breastbone. Wheezing and coughing heavily, she gives me a dirty look and staggers away. I have to resist the powerful urge to go after her and kill her without a second thought. Right now, Ash matters more.

I catch sight of Cato dragging her across the grass by her other ankle. He's ordering Marvel to get the sword, and warning Clove at the same time not to use her knives:

"This one's all mine," I hear him declare. That's enough to make something inside me snap. I haven't felt this since training, and even then it wasn't so strong.

I run out into the open space and launch myself at Marvel before he can pass Cato the sword. He falls to the ground, and Clove steps in. I block her left hook and side-kick her out of the way. Marvel gets up and I turn around, giving him one, two, three sharp hits to the spleen, chest and jaw. A hand is on my shoulder.

I waste no time in sinking my nails into it, and wrenching Clove, lighter than the training dummy, over my shoulder until she lands hard and flat on her back.

While those two are briefly dealt with, I go entirely with my instinct: I leap onto Cato's back and start clawing at his face like a manic cat. He yells in surprise and anger, getting a grip on my wrists until I can't move them. I'm stuck.

"Get - her - off - _me_!"

Arms come at me from behind and there's nothing I can do. Marvel, bleeding from his lip, holds me still long enough for Clove, still dizzy from her fall, to drive a long knife through my left shoulder.

I don't feel the pain straight away; I just feel the force of a heavy metal object. When I gain awareness of shredded nerves and muscle, however, the pain that does come is astonishing. I can't speak, or make any sound at all. I'm drowning in pain.

The familiar feeling of blackness from Reaping Day returns as I fall backwards.

**Ash**

OH THE PAIN OH SO MUCH PAIN I -

I'm shoved forward until I topple onto the grass. My head snaps up. The clearing. I'm in the clearing. Where the Careers always are.

The worst kind of coldness goes through my heart when I hear fiendish cackling from my far right. The three of them are there. And I am here.

I feel the blood draining from my ankle, fast. Desperately, I cling onto the grass and start scrabbling away. Then I attempt to go into a bridge, laying my hands flat on the ground and pushing off until my feet go over my head and I'm standing. But it only lasts for a second before I buckle and collapse again. Even if I could overcome the agonising pain, my ankle can't take the pressure.

"Oh no," I whisper as they draw closer and closer. I'm ashamed of the shaky tears that are escaping from my eyes. "Oh please no, don't, _please_!"

"Isn't that adorable?" Clove smirks, hands on her hips. "She's begging for mercy."

"What do you say, Cato?" snickers Marvel. "Are we feeling charitable today?"

He stares down at me with a malevolent half-smile, and shakes his head.

"No. Go get my sword." He seizes my good ankle. Good Lord_ NO. _"Hey, don't get any bright ideas," he snaps at Clove, who reluctantly slots her knife back into a strap up her sleeve. "This one's all mine."

He drags me through the grass, leaving a trail of blood behind. I'm too frightened to close my eyes or scream. I just keep on whispering "oh no" to myself, until the words blend into each other.

Then I hear a high-pitched growl, and a collision. I stare open-mouthed at Thorn, beating the living daylights out of Clove and Marvel _at the same time_.

But my attention is quickly back on Cato. He drops my ankle and, for show, stretches out his hands.

"I've been waiting this moment since you first swanned out of the training centre, so pleased with yourself. Well," He leans in closer. "Who's laughing now?"

At that moment, Thorn jumps up onto him from behind, and her hands scratch red lines across his face like crazy. He struggles to stop her, and for a second I picture the two of us making it back to base camp alive after all…

"Get - her - off - _me_!"

I lose all hope when Marvel and Clove, hardly able to walk in a straight line, just about manage to apprehend Thorn. Before she can throw them off, she gets stabbed in the shoulder.

"NO!" I scream at full volume, watching in horror as she topples straight backwards onto the grass, eyes closed.

Now there's nothing to stop them. This is it for me. Cato wipes traces of blood off his face, breathing deeply, like he's repressing his anger and sublimating it into preparation for my murder. He picks up the sword from where Marvel left it lying on the ground.

"So, where were we?" He kneels on my legs and, before I can react in time, pins down my right wrist. Clove stands on my left, which in itself is torture. Cato unsheathes the sword so that it gleams in the sunlight and burns my eyes. He traces the tip, finely sharpened, in a line from one of my shoulders to the other.

"Yes, that should do it. Quick for us, slow for you. My preferred approach."

There is no doubt in my mind that he's serious. I swallow back more tears. I can't feel my left arm at all.

"What, are you giving us the silent treatment now? Is that it? Shame, I could have listened to you screaming for mercy for _hours_." He takes my jaw in his hand and forces me to look him in the eyes. He knows, and I know, that there's no hiding my terror.

I feel the blade rest on my neck. Just do it. Please, just end this now.

"Any last words, little gymnast?"

I keep my mouth shut. He rolls his eyes, and without any further delay, slits my throat.

I'm still alive. Still struggling for breath, afraid to inhale or exhale for fear that more blood will spill out from my neck. They get off me, and my hand flies to my wound, trying in vain to keep my blood inside.

My head is getting lighter. I feel sick.

Cato moves to stand, but I don't let him. Not yet. My other hand reaches up and secures the collar of his shirt. I pull with all my fading strength until he notices. He's not sure what to do. He thought I'd just give up, die, and leave him alone.

Not happening.

I get him down towards me, and with tremendous effort haul myself up to meet him halfway. My hand goes from his shirt collar to the back of his neck. I feel his own fingers clasp around it, prepared to chuck me back down.

I use my final breaths to whisper three jagged words in his ear:

"You…won't…last."

That's when my body shuts down. All feeling goes from my hands, and I fall back to the ground.

The world is disappearing into a dazzling light.


	16. The Standalone

**Chapter Sixteen**

**The Standalone**

**Author's Note: Hello everyone - hope you're well! I am currently typing this chapter from the house I'm babysitting at. The parents don't seem to like central heating. And I have no wi-fi. Still, that means less distraction and more writing…on we go.**

**Legal: All things relating to copyright may be found in Index A, under Section 1 Sub-heading ZC, Paragraph X0789, Sub-sub-heading CS34ZQIJ1…**

**Thorn**

A long, long sleep. Something…pain. To the left somewhere, but don't know. Darkness, all-permeating. Occupying a nowhere space.

Am I not dead yet?

I don't dare believe the possibility until my eyes force themselves to blink open.

Daytime. A cloudy afternoon and the air is fresh and breathable and, and -

I'm alive.

I steadily regain my sense of self, testing the movement in my fingers and toes. I swallow and sigh, directing my hand lightly over the skin of my shoulder, from which Clove's knife still protrudes like a victory flag. I can feel the site of the injury prickling with pain underneath the paint of drying blood. With the utmost reluctance I clasp my right hand firmly around the knife's hilt, and can actually feel the pressure go through my bones. It's a horrible sensation.

My jaw clenches, drops and sustains hoarse, silent cries as I slowly pull the blade out of my shoulder. When the tip comes through, I want to sob with relief and throw up at the same time.

The knife gets chucked to one side, and I push myself up on my right arm, left shoulder hanging as a useless extension. How long have I been out? And…where is everyone?

I turn my bewildered head from every angle I can manage, but there's no Cato, no Clove, no Marvel… my breath catches in my throat when I glimpse the green shirt of the guy I recognise from District Three, but he's jogging away from me, taking a spear with him. Looks like he's going after someone, but who?

Then it hits me: Ash. Where was she when I went down? Somewhere over…

A few feet away, there is a sizeable dark stain in the grass. A thin trail of a similar colour snakes away from it, covering a lot of distance. That was from Cato dragging her, I remember that. But then what happened?

There are several reasons for me not to panic yet: first, Ash is strong. It's not impossible she managed to outsmart the Careers and get away. For all I know, she's the one District Three is chasing right now! Not to mention the fact that I haven't heard a single cannon. Granted, I was asleep, but that doesn't matter at this point. I have to get out of here, and can only will myself to do that with the reassurance that I still have an ally left in the Games.

Before I can change my mind, my legs push the rest of my body upwards until I'm standing…whoa…okay, I'm wobbling, but that's okay, perfectly normal when you've lost at least a pint of blood…oh boy.

My fatigued eyes drift to the smoke coming up from the forest just ahead. Someone's lit something _way_ too strong to be a campfire.

What am I still doing here? My body and mind have been slowed down well below their normal capacities, but I have to get back to base camp…somehow.

My feet are uninjured, but I can't follow any kind of straight line through the grass. I keep my left arm down, and straight, locked to my side, as I stagger along, but the ache is so bad, oh my goodness it's blocking out any coherence my thoughts might have had…

I stop, sway, and stare. Blurriness and instability of my vision aside, isn't that Katniss' olive face I see through the branches? She doesn't see me, I'm too far away, but I see the concentration etched into her brow. Her bowstring is pulled back, taut, with a metal arrow poised on it. Release. I follow it as it skewers an apple in a netted bag that sits towards the top of the supply pile.

I have no idea what's going on… I keep looking as she readies a second, takes a long moment to exhale, and lets it zoom.

What follows takes place over the course of five seconds: arrow rips open bag of apples; I see the mounds of dirt around supplies; apples start bouncing off other stuff in pile; I surmise what she's planned; I run like hell.

As I pass the first row of trees outside the clearing, an explosive force sends my entire body flying forward through the air. I land on my face in the dirt.

Everything is muted for one drawn-out second, and then I make myself get up and keep moving, jabbering many, many swear words as I do so.

The camp appears almost as if out of nowhere. The little amount of time it took for me to reach it is surreal.

On my knees, I crawl with one arm as close as I can get to the sleeping bag, manage to get my upper body on top of the waterproof cover, and drop into solid, uninterrupted sleep again.

...Still not dead. For a hazy moment I feel invincible, almost like laughing at myself. And then the spike of pain returns all around my shoulder, and I quickly forget that feeling.

Sun has already set. It's cold and dark, but with just enough visibility to let me know I shouldn't waste it. As my mind wakes up my right hand scrambles frantically until it closes around the strap of the backpack. Dan's backpack. Good old Dan…

I sit up, hacking. I shiver profusely, and wrap myself up in the sleeping bag, sitting as straight as I can under the circumstances.

My pulse stops when I can't find the first aid box, but then I remember I took out all the kit and put it near the campfire. My right arm reaches behind me and feels around until I can shuffle over to the pile.

In the rapidly fading light I pick out the white roll of bandage, the little scissors and the…okay we've run out of antiseptic. And I can't find the miracle balm…Ash must be carrying it around with her. Where is she at now? On the other side of the arena?

I have a moment of self-pity at how totally dismal a situation I'm in right now, before doing the best I can to pull myself together and work quickly with the bandage. As much as I don't want it to in this temperature, my jacket comes off, followed by my first and second thermal vests. I pull down the strap of my third and final one, thanking the heavens that it's now too dark for me to make out just how bad my injury is.

Shabbily, hastily, I bind up the wound in layers of bandage, tightening them as much as possible to put pressure on it. Then my other clothes come back on, bringing me a little more warmth.

Now I'm just sitting here. In the dark. In a forest. On my own.

I put my hand to my forehead and feel an alarming amount of sweat. I'm dripping with fever. And that can only lead me to conclude one thing: blood poisoning.

As if I didn't already have mortality issues. This is easily becoming the worst day I, or any person for that matter, could have.

I am famished. No wonder my dizziness was so severe. I fumble around in the backpack, trying to kid myself that there might be some crumbs or something that I might wolf down.

Instead, all I can pull out are the sunglasses. What a joke.

Out of vague, annoyed curiosity, I slide them on.

_WOW_. Everything…I can see everything!

I can't help but gasp and grin, as my mentor's message finally makes sense: 'For enlightenment purposes only' - they're night-vision glasses!

The trees, fallen leaves, and my own feet, are bathed in an eerie green glow. Okay, okay, so at least getting through tonight may be a slightly less daunting task than anticipated. Anyone tries to sneak up on me, I'll be ready…well, as ready as a person can be with one of their arms out of action and a raging fever.

I take the glasses off when the anthem starts playing.

My eyes stare up at the arena ceiling, blinking away the sweat dripping down from my forehead. I have no idea what to expect, who might have died in the last six hours. But I clasp my hands tightly together at my lips, ignoring my shoulder pain, in the ceaseless prayer that Ash's face won't be there.

The shock of seeing Marvel's photo knocks the breath out of me. I am both stunned and relieved. How did it happen and when?

But there's no time to reflect on that, as his picture is replaced by the young guy from Three. Oh. And I saw him such a short while ago…

No.

No.

OH LORD NO.

I sink down onto my heels like someone's sucked out my soul. Ash's face is beamed into the sky, in black and neon white. No colour. Her eyes gleam with vitality, but of the kind that can only belong to the photo of a dead person.

My mind can't comprehend this. Ash can't be dead. It's a logical contradiction. No one so strong, so determined and so good could…die.

Somewhere within me, something starts to crack. I feel the tears coming thick and fast, flooding my face. I rock back and forth in silence, incapable even of reacting properly.

Then I howl at a volume and pitch I didn't even know I could reach. My right hand goes to my face, and I slowly, without even thinking about it, lean forward until my head is on the ground, my hair falling with it. I can't breathe, but that doesn't feel important now.

I reel air into my lungs, choking, and then sob all over again, but this time more quietly. I'm alone. This is not just a bad dream; I am undeniably alone. All their deaths start accumulating, lives torn away from the world leaving permanent, gaping blank spaces: Kiko, Logan, the girl from Eight, Flint, Dan, Ash…nothing can compensate for them.

I lift my head just in time to catch the face of Rue before it disappears from the sky. Another punch to the heart. More tears come. I want to forget. I want someone to come and erase my mind. To erase me.

I lie down on my back, head swimming, and hands and knees shaking so ferociously it's like I've been given a shot of adrenalin. As if I've lost all say in what happens to my body.

It wouldn't be the first time.

Gradually the sobs stop coming, but I feel so terrible, death might just be welcome to greet me.

And then a trumpet sounds. Am I hallucinating?

"Attention all tributes," announces Claudius Templesmith. I haven't heard his voice since the earlier notice that, if two tributes from the same district were the last standing, they'd both be crowned Victors. When it didn't apply to any of us in our alliance, because our partners had already been slaughtered. Were there really so many people?

"Tomorrow at dawn there will be a feast held in the Cornucopia. Now, some of you may be declining my invitation already. But this is no ordinary feast. Each of you needs something desperately..."

My ears prick up. Miracle balm. That's the only thing between me and a nauseatingly slow demise.

"...and each of you will find that something in a backpack marked with your district number. Think hard about refusing to show up. For some of you, this will be your last chance."

That is all. Silence is everywhere, from between the stars to the dust of the earth.

They want another bloodbath. The choice is dying or dying. The only difference is how long it will take, who does it, and how painfully it happens.

I resolve to go. Right now. I'll wait under the cover of the bushes until sunrise, and then get in and out as fast as I can.

I make this decision now because I'm so scared that if I just lie here passively, I might close my eyes and never wake up.

The night-vision glasses find their way into my right hand, and I put them on.

I not only zip my jacket all the way up, I retrieve other thermals from around the unlit fire, and get them around my body, which burns with glistening fever. It's a long shot, but I've got to try and break through it, otherwise my going to the feast will be a waste of time and precious energy.

I leave Dan's backpack, wrapping the sleeping bag around my good arm, and walk away from the camp without looking back.


	17. Said It All

**Chapter Seventeen**

**Said It All**

**Author's Note: I don't think I can even say anything at this point…I'm so excited to write this!**

**Legal: Oh, I might as well go for it - *****deep breath***** I acknowledge that I own no part of **_**The Hunger Games**_**, in novel or feature film format. All rights belong to Suzanne Collins. Any and all resemblance of characters, setting, and narrative events to actual persons (living or dead), geographical location or events in reality is unintentional and entirely coincidental.**

**Thorn**

I feel worse with every step, but grimly stick it out until I come across a tree trunk against which I can prop myself. I slide into the sleeping bag and pull the top over my head.

I am boiling. And parched. And slightly delirious. But at least the clearing is a few yards away. No trek in the morning…

Sleep, for many interminable hours, is evasive. I take off the glasses so that a curtain of opaque blackness drops over everything. I pull the sleeping bag down from my head and pull it back up again. Shrug it off my shoulders and then re-bury myself inside. But nothing works. I'm so uncomfortable.

What time my eyes finally shut is beyond me, but I know it happens eventually. I can't have been asleep for more than two or three hours, though. The faint light of dawn pours over the arena.

I take a moment to assess how I'm feeling: throat dry. Should have brought water. Didn't.

Slower heart rate. Sour taste in mouth. Eyes heavy as stones.

But there is one upside. My layering method worked: forehead is damp, but not soaking, and although my body feels absurdly warm, it's because of the clothes, not the fever.

I wriggle out of the sleeping bag as quietly as possible, and peel away layers until I feel cool.

For a while I remain sitting, taking in the soothing sound of mockingjays as they awake to a new day. Good to know there's some happiness left in this place.

It's when I hear a whirring sound from behind that I tap into an unknown source of energy, and use the tree to help me get on my feet. I peer through the branches and see a large metal cuboid at the entrance of the Cornucopia. Lined up on its surface are five backpacks, with district numbers stitched into the fabric: 2, 5, 10, 11, 12.

I can now make a definitive list: Cato, Clove, Vixen, me, Thresh, Katniss, Peeta; the final seven.

Just as I lift my right foot to step forward, I see a flash of red hair. It's her. She stayed in the Cornucopia overnight and…she's _getting away_.

A familiar, welcome desire for revenge flares up inside of me. I pick up the nearest moderately sized pebble I can find, narrow my eyes at the back of her head, and lob it her way.

Vixen doesn't go down, but it does catch her in the skull. Her hand flies to her hair in surprise and she stumbles forward. Maybe it's the lingering fever, but I swear I can make out a whimpered "ow" as she disappears into the trees.

_Good._ _You deserve it._

I have to move now otherwise someone else -

Before I can even complete that thought, Katniss is running in. I have to wait until she's…Clove.

Her knife whips through the air before I can cry "look out!" Luckily Katniss swerves in the nick of time and avoids it. An arrow sticks in Clove's left arm in the blink of an eye, and she shrieks. Go Katniss, go!

Except then a second knife gets her across the cheek. A millisecond of being stunned is all Clove needs to pounce on her. The two of them roll around, swiping at each other and struggling to get the upper hand.

Clove, in spite of her small frame, pins Katniss down and gets out another knife.

What's going on is horrible to watch, but I have to take this opportunity now. I burst into the clearing, reach my backpack and hug it to my chest with feral eyes. I'm hidden by the curve of the Cornucopia, and they might have heard me had Katniss not at that moment yelled Peeta's name at the top of her voice.

I back myself right against the metal structure, listening to Clove gloating, and I try to figure out what, if anything, I could do to help.

I have no weapons. She has plenty. There is very little I can do without sealing my fate of death.

I dare to look round, and just as Clove puts her knife to Katniss' lips, the tall, menacing figure of Thresh materialises out of _nowhere_. He yanks Clove away, and swings her against the other side of the Cornucopia with a thud. I immediately get my head back round, holding my breath and hoping I haven't been seen.

More ominous muttering, and then suddenly Clove's frantic, almost childish, cries for help:

"CATO! CATO!"

First clunk. Second clunk. Third - I leap back when a small hand falls into my line of sight, limp and void of life.

"Just this time, Twelve. For Rue."

Whoa. Katniss just got the biggest stroke of luck you could ask for. I look to my left and glimpse Thresh snatching his backpack off the table. By some miracle, he doesn't see me standing on the other side, and just races away back into the forest.

I look back at Clove's hand, and move in for a closer look.

This is the worst thing I can do. Katniss is just slipping out of the clearing. Cato, meanwhile, leans over his partner, one hand on her face.

"Clove, Clove stay with me…Clove!"

Cannon.

His head drops further to the ground as he takes his hand away from her face and sighs. One elbow on his knee, he moves to stand, and stops halfway when his gaze rests on me.

Underneath my fear, I can feel a flicker of empathy when I see the look in his eyes. He's actually…sad.

But that vanishes as soon as he recognises me. He stands up to his full height, one hand ready on his sword. He doesn't take it out yet. We both stand very still for what feels like an age.

I let the backpack slide out of my grip until it lands on the grass. I don't know why I do this.

It's like the first moment of the bloodbath all over again, but with a difference. Cato doesn't look like his usual sadistic self. It's like he's not…in the mood to kill me.

"Well, look who's finally shown her face."

I stay mute. He tilts his head a little, studying me.

"You know, of all the tributes in these Games, you're the one I never really got. Never understood what was going on behind those mysterious wide eyes of yours. So…" What he does next perplexes me. He takes his hand away from his sword, and folds his arms. "…Enlighten me."

When I keep silent, he reverts back to fear tactics, and unsheathes the sword so fast my hands can't even move in time to block him. He doesn't cut me, but he traps me against the shaded wall of the Cornucopia, blade held at the level of my neck. His free hand pins back my right wrist.

"Okay then, if that's the way you want to do this, fine by me."

A pause. Then a voice speaks up that sounds a lot like my own:

"You think I fear you."

"Oh look, she _speaks_!" He laughs for entertainment value, and then takes in what I've just said. He looks at me sceptically. "Well, yes…that does tend to be the reaction I generate."

"Well…sorry to disappoint. But I'm serious. I. Don't. Fear. You."

"Oh_ really_?"

"Yes," I reply. Then a twisted smile breaks out onto my face and, at an escalating volume, I begin laughing hysterically. Now I'm the one scaring him.

"In fact…" I get out, calming down again, but keeping this strange release of ecstasy contained inside me. "…I've just realised that I don't fear _anything_ anymore. For the first time in my life, I'm not afraid, not of you, or the Capitol, or death. Nothing. I am fear_less_...It's wonderful."

When I pause in my rhapsody, I can see Cato's expression growing more and more ambivalent. My reaction has thrown all his possible tactics out the window. And I'm not going to stop there.

"You said you wanted to know more about me, is that right? Hm?"

He eventually nods.

"Okay. Here it is: my name is Thorn West. I was born and raised in District Ten. I have a little sister called Savvy who is going to grow up to be a brilliant woman, just like my mom. I love them more than anything and anyone in the world. They have put up with me even through the toughest, most hellish times; times when I would break down and cry for days on end.

"You know, it's strange. I've feared death every time it's had a chance to catch me in these Games, but retrospectively, it makes very little sense.

"See, a while back I started getting bad headaches, blurry vision and fainting spells. My hands wouldn't stop shaking; I kept saying the wrong things, stammering and forgetting where I was going or what people's names were.

"So I went to the healer in our District. And he sat me down and told me I had at most two years left to live.

"Apparently the name for it is an aneurysm of the peripheral nervous system…it means that anywhere, at any moment, a blood vessel at the junction between my brain and my spinal cord could burst, and I'd drop dead. Just like that."

Silence has never felt like something I've wanted to savour. But I do now. Cato's mouth is open, and his hold on the sword has weakened considerably. He stares at me, completely stupefied. The millions of people in Panem who are watching this, gamemakers included, must look something like him right now.

"I…I've never told that to anyone outside my family...and now I'm telling it to you, of all people. But then, I guess it's kinda fitting, don't you think? We both know you wanted to kill me the moment you saw me at the Procession. But you know what, Cato…?"

I feel fresh tears stream down my face. My voice goes to a whisper.

"…I'm not yours to take. I refuse to be yours, because nature already beat you to the punch. You can't kill me: I'm already -"

I suddenly lose the ability to form words. I make my lips move, but no sound comes out.

The back of my head hurts. It really, _really_ hurts…

Cato backs away from me, terrified. I can't imagine why until red tints everything in my vision. I press my hand to a corner of my eye. When I look at it, my fingers are stained with blood...I'm crying blood…huh.

I feel my feet trying in vain to keep my body stable. I fall to my knees with my last sigh, and my head lands on my outstretched arm.

I feel light.

With my final seconds left in this life, I am immensely grateful for the fact that my hands have finally stopped shaking.

**Author's Note**: **There are honestly no words that can accurately describe how happy all you devoted readers have made me these past two weeks. I sincerely hope you've enjoyed this story as much as I have writing it, even if I have shed a tear or two over the deaths of my own fictional characters…anyway, thank you again. Happy reading and writing :^)**


End file.
